


NoirWell

by An_Ephemeral_Walk



Series: Inkwell spill [3]
Category: Bendy and the Ink Machine, Cuphead (Video Game)
Genre: Gen, If you've read the mage story you know what not so human means, Not so human, Other, but they aren't 'lady now dude on unicycle turning into the freaking moon', genderbent, i mean a don gets a crush on a judge, of course sally is going to have his wfe, so i suppose this is more a homage to noir?, they aren't entirely human, this fandom sorely lacks noir, though i hate writing in the first person, when i say possibly more, which noir loves doing
Language: English
Status: In-Progress
Published: 2019-12-22
Updated: 2020-04-13
Packaged: 2021-02-26 03:15:18
Rating: Not Rated
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 4
Words: 34,441
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/21896512
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/An_Ephemeral_Walk/pseuds/An_Ephemeral_Walk
Summary: In the recesses of the streets of the city of Inkwell, the shadows roil with a darker underbelly. Two Mafia families would normally not be too keen being so close to one another, but deals were hashed out and its easy to ignore the dirty side to Inkwell for folks who are keen to living average lives. One such woman finds the idea astoundingly boring. Thankfully, with a police force not quite big enough for two mafia families on top of all the petty crimes that go on in any city, her secondary job outside of shopkeeper is in steady demand.Detective Porkrind makes her bones solving all the little mysteries delivered to her desk with aplomb. Business is good, but she's even better There's little she can't piece together and even less that she hasn't seen. Course, if that was entirely true, she'd have stopped the side business long ago, luckily for her, Inkwell loves surprises, including ones a lone detective frankly shouldn't be getting her hands on.
Relationships: The Devil/King Dice (Cuphead), possibly more? - Relationship
Series: Inkwell spill [3]
Series URL: https://archiveofourown.org/series/1526519
Comments: 2
Kudos: 8





	1. The Box Case

**Author's Note:**

> I'd like to note up front that while Porkrind is indeed the main focus, much like the Lady story i have, each chapter will not revolve around her. Every other will. Because Porkrind needs way more love. You might also recognize the name of one of the Dons from the one of a previous story, Ambidextrous. No, you do not need to read that. The only one i recommend reading is A Queenly Restart, and even that isn't required reading. So! With all that, let's begin~

The streets of Inkwell were always alive. Filthy back alleys bustling with seedy dealings, streets bathed in bright yellow lamps spreading their sepia glow across the world below. Rats skittering into sewer drains, newpapers discarded after being perused by bustling workers. Smokers huddled together for a semblance of warmth, chased outside by family not fond of their vice ruining happier home smells. The cooler fall air gave those out in its less than tender embrace bright cheeks and hunched figures, coats sometimes too threadbare to do much else other than give an illusion of warmth. An extra layer to tuck the scarves and gloves into. Extra fabric to cover the legs were dressy pants and thin skirts could give no defense to the cold breezes.

But to one like Porkrind, the cold had little effect. Her thick hide and hefty frame meant the suit she donned and a peacoat were all she needed to hold her shoulders loose and her head high. The lights bounced off her ears, catching on the patch over one of her eyes while the other scanned the world around her. One such as herself rarely had to fear being accosted by the less friendly types bathing in the signature double edged protection of the shadows. 

She passed by two women who walked shoulder to shoulder, speaking about stray gossip in hushed tones. Porkrind appreciated their ability to remain focused and vigilant even while trying to soothe their nerves. She herself walked alone. Her chin rested on the double knot of the knit scarf, a soothing softness that she gladly welcomed as a breeze colder than before swept across the world. A car drifted by, headlights casting eerie shadows on walls the stationary streetlights weren’t aimed towards. Porkrind paid it no mind, focused instead on the sounds and sights around her. 

She passed by a bundle of smokers, breath catching in her snout to avoid antagonizing her nose. A few listlessly waved her way, and she nodded back politely, but other than that, no one else noticed her as she made her way back to her store/home/office. 

Ascending the stairs as the scent of rain began to permeate the cold wind, she unlocked the door. The floorboards creaked under her weight as she turned and locked it immediately behind her. A habit that had saved her bacon several times before. 

Her store, a mishmash of trinkets and useful tinctures, a unique grocery store as she called it, greet her presence. Lights clicked on, chasing the shadows away, proudly showing off the lack of any unwanted visitors. Not that she was expecting any unwanted guests, not when the most recent bout of business had been so lackluster. 

‘Porkrinds emporium’ took the bulk of the door, and on the glass window showing off wares, her alternate business was spelled out. While Inkwell would never be called ‘gritty’, ‘dingy’ or ‘sweltering’, far too well kept for that, there were enough _darker types_ out in the streets to warrant intricant wrought iron bars lacing a pattern that made breaking the large window ultimately useless. The main entrance, a heavy door of solid oak with holy elm sandwiched between kept out most other breakins. But if that failed, it wasn’t like she didn’t have alternative means on how to discover when someone with alternative entering methods was around. 

It being midnight, she originally doubted many would be bustling to get in. And certainly, she wasn’t exactly wrong in that belief. In the day, her store was a hub for gossip and chatter that the shopkeep gladly eavesdropped on. Most of the time, it made her night business easier. Her night business was the reason for the bulkier protections. Including the many warnings she checked swiftly. The dog statue was facing the way it should, the bird windchime was silent as a grave, the third stair leading up to her office creaked like it was dying, and the light turned on just fine as she ascended the stairs. She paused only to lock the door behind her, too tired to want anything to do with additions being added to her side business.

The door to her living area was still barred and untouched, and the door to her office sat wide open, inviting and friendly. She took the invitation gladly, stepping into the rather compact room with one wall of bookshelves off to her right, and filing cabinets to her left. The bookshelves were full to the brim with various oddities and tomes, all with information she had deemed useful enough to display, and not important enough to hide. Her filing cabinets, all locked and bolted, full of past endeavors and various other necessary items for her store and livelihood. That was where she started, depositing the folder she’d had tucked under her peacoat before she’d left the train station. 

Removing her coat now that its inner pockets were no longer needed, she hung it from the coat rack by the door, and kicked her heels off as well, uncaring of how they ended in a pile. She ambled over to her desk, her heavy frame settling into the plush chair with practiced ease. Kicking her feet up onto the cherrywood surface of her desk not covered by papers and letters of current work, she relaxed for the first time all day. She only moved once to roll her chair over to the window, propping it open a crack to let the cool air filter into the office, and then returned to her attempts to melting into the chair.

Every so often her ears would flick towards the sound of steps crunching over stray pieces of trash littering the ground around the trashcans out back. But with nothing following up, not even an eyelid twitched. She gave herself half an hour to relax, to soak in the days events and filter through what was useful, and what was definitely useless. She’d seen an increase in Drewstein family members by the station, saw a rather impressive uptick of imps scouring the alleyways, and talk of tensions rising again between the two major Families in Inkwell spoken in hushed, worried tones. But she wasn’t an amateur, she’d been at her job for a good two decades. She’d seen how the two didn’t seem to get hostile when approaching the other. All night it had been harried glances of those nervous about a shared trouble. 

But, lifting the first letter to her eyes as her lamp clicked on, replacing the overhead light, she found herself simply filing that away for later. For now, Mr. Fleece wanted to know where one of his flock had gone off to. She also had to pen her findings of the case of the missing husband to the worried wife who’d be returning tomorrow. It wasn’t ever easy to find a way to work ‘he’s being poorly stealthy because he’s planning a really nice anniversary and not dealing with shady folk or hiding some debt from you’ into a way that would keep the surprise. The poor woman had been so fearful her husband had been hiding troubles from her. At first, Porkrind feared it would be another adulterous case, but the man hadn’t spent less than an hour without checking his watch and the photo of his beloved wife while waiting for the clerks to hand him the flowers or tickets to a romantic ferry ride.

She tapped a chipped nail on the band around her own ring finger, a warm feeling in her chest. She wasn’t heartless enough to ruin such a lovely surprise. Smiling to herself, she read through the next case. A missing child, not rebellious but hadn’t been seen in a few days. Inkwell coppers were stretched too thin to be of any real use for some unknown family missing a kid at that age where going missing often translated to getting shitfaced in some back alley and refusing to return home before the scent of booze was a distant memory. Mr. Fleece, fearing his child was a corpse under a fresh new patio, had gone to her. So focused she was, she hardly realized the cold breeze was somehow colder than before, and wasn’t exactly radiating from the window. Leaned back, it was easy to shift her hand, the one hidden by the papers detailing the case, to the holster under her suit jacket. 

Then she glanced up, got a real good look at the dame reading the old case she’d just finished, and froze. White hair in soft fingerwaves, sleek smooth skin, violet silk gown hugging all the right curves even in the woman’s seated position. Not a soul in Inkwell didn’t know who she was, and Porkrind had never dropped her hold on her weapon faster. She hesitantly shifted, putting the papers back down on her desk and returning her socked feet to the ground. 

“Isn’t he buying a ferry ticket for his anniversary?” The woman asked, as if she was any old acquaintance of Porkrinds. Porkrind nodded, far too tense for her throat to vocalize anything. Finally, it seemed the woman noticed how tense the night sleuth was, and her bright green eyes flickered with amusement.

“Is anything on my current case list to do with you or your business, and if so, which one so I can toss it.” Porkrind forced out, fervently flipping through the many cases. Perhaps Mr. Fleeces daughter had joined up with the casino, or maybe the wife she’d thought was so sweet or the husband she’d believed to be doing something wonderful were less than pleasant. The other woman reclined in the chair far from decent enough for one such as herself. She looked like a movie star in a scruffy set, and to a degree, Porkrind was embarrassed that she hadn’t picked up in a few days. 

“No, you’ve nothing to worry about in that regard.” Her voice alone didn’t belong in an office that looked like a mini tornado had hit every corner, sparing only the bookshelves. Briefly, Porkrind feared the woman’s spouse would catch wind her wife had been in a hovel and murder Porkrind for not preparing the red-carpet experience for the woman radiating amusement. “No, I’ve actually got a bit of a request.”

Porkrind leaned her elbows on her desk, careful to not get too close but still show her full attention was on nothing else. 

“Somethin’ the imps can’t handle?” She asked, careful in her tone, hopeful nothing she said would be construed as insulting. The woman shook her head and pulled a slip of paper from under her glove out. 

“One of my…workers…” The word, spoken with a sharp note of annoyance, made Porkrinds muscles tense. She didn’t care about wrecking her house, if the one across from her got scary or irate enough to call her wife up, Porkrind would rip bars off the wall and bail out the window faster than a wolf could blow down a straw house. “Lost a box that I dearly need returned. As she’s currently busy feeding the furnace, she’s not able to do anything other than tell us where she lost it.” 

The paper turned out to be a map.

“The imps have scoured the location but can’t get into this building. All the others are clear, it’s just this one. And while I’d retrieve it myself, I’m on a bit of a time limit outside the casino, as I’m sure you’re aware.” She paused, letting Porkrind soak in the request. It was a warehouse sitting on the Drewstein family line. Immediately Porkrind saw the issue and looked up.

“They aren’t starting another turf war, are they?” She questioned, mentally calculating how much ammo she’d need to feel safe dipping into unfriendly territory. Especially territory that was the potential ground zero for an all-out war.The woman shook her head, a glint in her eye, something Porkrind was startled looked like relief that she wasn’t just refusing and running. Then again, the woman before her was a master of manipulation, so Porkrind didn’t put much any stock into any sort of emotion other than amusement coming from the one across from her. 

“No, they’ve tried getting in but the group inside did something to make it intruder proof. Neither of us can get in, and I was hopeful you’d be willing to help. Even if its just making an opening for us. You’ve got a chest in your room that will give you anything you think you’ll need. If you’ll take this job, of course. It’d have to be done as soon as possible, and I would have come earlier if I’d known earlier.” Bashful, the wife of a mafia don not of this world was bashful. Porkrind quirked a brow, and nodded.

“Tomorrows the off-day anyway, I don’t mind takin’ a late-night stroll.” Normally she’d talk payment around that time, but to talk money to one who had the Don of the casino around her pretty little finger was iffy at best. She had no doubt she’d be well rewarded for her services anyway. Perhaps it was the chest awaiting her, but whatever it turned out to be, she wasn’t going to so much as glance at her piggy bank on the upper shelf of the bookshelf closest to her desk.

The woman stayed just long enough to give her a picture of the box, a detailed description of its weight and how many the other Don suspected to be cowering in the building. Then, she was gone. 

The scent of jasmine was all that remained, and Porkrind marveled at the knowledge that one so close to that Don could smell like anything other than brimstone and hellfire. She stood, going to her living area for the stuff she’d need. It wasn’t much, she wasn’t keen on weighing herself down too much, but upon opening the chest that indeed sat at the foot of her bed, she pulled the few items she didn’t immediately have on hand. Grabbing her peacoat, she shook it on as she descended the stairs, heavy stride carrying her swiftly out into the store, then out into the streets once more. 

Inkwell’s streets were more barren than before, and without her scarf, the wind made her bare neck cringe. It was colder, and the scent of rain was heavy, clouds itching to deliver their gift shrouding the moon and stars. Leaving nothing but the stray lights on the skyscrapers peppering the area between the squatter buildings and the street lamps to illuminate the city. She didn’t see a single person as she made her way through the cold alleys and side stepped around piles of garbage awaiting collection. What she did see however, were the lackeys of the strongest Family in all of Inkwell.

Imps followed her progress, some chittering excitedly, others giving her nervous glances. They guided her along a path that took her to the docks far faster than the route she’d originally planned. As she made her way through the alley leading to the small area the warehouse sat in, a noise had her locking up and hastily scouring the area. The imps hadn’t alerted her, something they’d have done if there was a potential threat. Being under the protection of the imp’s boss’ wife meant they would descend on anything in her way that would hinder her ability to do what the woman needed. 

“Well you sure aren’t a lost little sheep.” A woman, no… a creature. Ink black flesh, featureless face with naught but a mask that rested diagonally on her head to show her current emotion, lanky but built based on the warehouse lights slipping across her form. Wearing pinstripe pants attached to swanky suspenders, and an ink-stained grey shirt. 

“Nah, left my wool coat back home.” She replied, already guessing who she was talking to. The mask shifted to a smiling face, the little cartoon a remnant of the former head of the family the woman before her was part of. 

“Have you brought the wolf pelt instead? There are less pleasant lambs who’ve lost their way. Boss deemed them lost causes, but you’ll need real teeth if you’ll have any chance of clearing the air in there for our humble guests.” 

She drew back the lapel of her peacoat, letting the glint of metal talk for her. She nodded, stepping back so she had a clear view of the target building. 

“Barriers as brick walls, but one such as yourself will be unaffected. We merely need an opening if you’re less inclined to shed filthy blood. Whatever prize awaits inside is all yours, as is whatever violence you deem thrilling. Boss’ll work her miracles on any she feels need a repeat performance back home.” And once she was done talking, a portal of rubber ink slid through the cracks of the brickwork behind her, filling until it was a solid writhing mass. Her nose wrinkled heavily at the acrid smell, but she forced herself to not react beyond that, far from willing to throw down with the most unstable of the upper family. The mask stared unblinkingly at her as its owner carried it into the portal, vanishing from view. 

Her first go of business was staking the outside out. Easing around, her hefty form didn’t hinder her in the least. She prowled, watching the few windows. Thick with black marks, she was confident that if she couldn’t see in, they couldn’t see out. The imps watched her, some eagerly pointing out a few weaker points they themselves had tried going through, and while she nodded in thanks, she made it clear she wanted nothing to do with an area those inside would be focused on. 

Her muscles, built up and kept in top shape by dragging oddities and oddballs around when the shop had larger shipments, not only lifted her up to one of the fire escape exits, but bent the metal bars.She kept at it, testing the weight limit of the stairs before she put her full weight on each one. None creaked, but she kept it slow and steady none the less. Once she hit the second-floor door, she paused. Briefly she lamented not having one of her nieces quick, crafty hands as she looked at the chain lock. Then she shrugged her broad shoulders and twisted the metal chain like it was tissue paper until it bent too much to hold each link in place.She glanced back at the imps, pausing briefly at the sight of a cutout of all things peering out the second floor of an adjacent warehouse. 

Heaving a breath of salty ocean air, she held her hand out to them, palm open, signaling for them to stay put. She would take a methodical approach. If she was told to collect a box, that would be her priority. If she was allowed to treat those inside as collateral damage, all the better. It was clear where she was, in a large office space devoid of movement. Her ear flicked, strained even with how sensitive they already were, listening for the slightest shuffle or drip. 

A sound, beyond the office space, beyond the door, but not coming closer, meandering instead. She used her ears to guide her as her vision fought to soak in the little wisps of moonlight sliding through the dirty panes of thick glass. Part of her figured it would be easier to smash a window and be done with it. Let the imps take care of the rest, but something told her they’d already tried that. There was no chance someone with that woman’s wit hadn’t already contemplated breaking glass, nor the brains leading the Drewstein family. She tossed the idea out then, more focused on getting to the other side of the room without hitting any weak points. The warehouses were always a toss up of “flimsy cheap plywood” and “bank vaults evny”.

To her displeasure, they’d chosen one of the buildings built like a vault, not a single board creaked under her. She supposed, with it being a smaller one, it would be easier to store more vital items being shipped out of Inkwell or in. The scent of rubber ink swirled through the dust in the air, dancing around with it, making her breathe through her open mouth instead the closer she got to the door. There was motion behind the door, likely one of the perpetrators, or, to her, “acceptable casualties”. 

She removed one of her gloves after figuring out that only one was making noise behind the flimsy wooden barrier. Likely one of the ones hoping for a brief respite from the rest, or the watchman taking a breather. Whichever it was, she didn’t care, she simply began to make little scratching noises on a nearby desk. Mimicking demonic claws skittering across wood, it caught the attention of the one outside. The door handle twisted, and she stood in the deepest shadows. If there was one good thing about doing a few smaller jobs for the Drewstein Don, it was insider knowledge. 

The one who peered in, visibly sweating beads of thick black ink, still had a face. Like a human dipped into monochrome and squished in a few places. He still had his human eyes, although one was just a cavernous void of swirling ink spilling down the gaping hole in his skull just above the eye socket. His left had was unrecognizable, a mash of ink with threads of white bone peeping out by the joints. He turned back, looking at the light spilling under the door, where he knew a person would think to hide. Something he tested by opening the door wider and wider. Nothing hindered it, it swung open easily. 

He sighed and turned, and his entire head was grabbed up in one of her hands. She dragged him in, closing the door behind him like the polite detective she was. He tried to scream, but the hand over his face was too thick and muffled everything, mashing his nose in with how tight a grip it was. She hauled him over towards the fire escape, and paused. Ink wasn’t threatened by hands around throats, lungs perpetually full of ink as they were, it wasn’t a remote fear of theirs. But habits die harder than an imps sugar rush and she coiled the free hand around it.

“Hey there handsome, got a couple questions for ya, mind whispering sweet to my ears?” She had too gruff a voice to sound sweet, and her coldly blank stare wasn’t soothing, but he did nothing but gasp and wheeze with panic when she moved the hand covering his face away. “Course, if ya call out, I could just use you to write a little calling card for yer boss, bet yer ribs would make a nice pen. Follow?” She asked, and he frantically nodded. She pat the top of his head mockingly, and got to it.

“How many of you sorry escapees are there in here?” She had an estimate, but she wanted solid numbers. He squeaked out “ten”, inky hands clawing at her powerful wrist. She loosened her grip, a show of kindness as was the friendly nod. “And do you know about a box what don’t resemble the others? Small one, big as yer head, weighs a pretty penny. Chief I’ll be honest, if yer sing me the location of that box, why, I’ll even consider helpin you birds fly the coop!” He shook his head, and she frowned. She’d been in the business long enough to know he wasn’t shaking it in response to not seeing the box. There’d been a pause, hesitation and realization on the rookies face. 

“Ah,” She tutted, like a mother disappointed in her lying child. The door swung open quietly, easily, and his eye widened considerably. “And here I was hoping ya had looks and brains.” Her muscles tensed as he thrashed, a feather to her strength, not so much to gravity as he was sent flying out. He bubbled and boiled before he even hit the ground, as imps prowled the downed form whose throat burst like a meaty bubble, spraying ink everywhere, hindering his ability to scream as the ink in his body answered the command of its mistress. She didn’t even feign surprise at how the expression of the cutout had changed to a sneering grin. She simply closed the door again and moved back to the door.

Part of her wanted to play the entertaining game of “wait for them to search for their lost friend, crush each one as they wander in.” But she wasn’t sure of how patient Hell’s Don’s wife was. For all she knew the woman was tapping her fancy heel and getting a slight frown as Porkrind took longer and longer. So she exited the room and took in the bulk of the building. A warehouse as it was, the open floor storage area was stacked high with boxes and metal pillars. No one ran to the upper floor to rescue or avenge their partner, none could. While ink beings could share a hivemind, it was difficult to broadcast to others unless the ink itself was willing to carry the message. The boss could send a thought and every single underling would hear it, even if they were across the city. But the lackeys and new meat had none of that. Even the upper echelon of the family had little ability in that area.

She also knew that, as she slid into the shadows again, taking advantage of the hulking shapes of the boxes and trinkets and collectibles strewn about to conceal her own form, that it was only those who had no eyes anymore that could see into the shadows. Their minds, swamped with ink that they were, still liked relying on their original eyes until that option wasn’t available. It smelled heavily of ink, likely what was used to write the sigils covering the windows and floors before the doors, locking even the imps out. Her current guess was they weren’t looking to start a war, but wanted out of the family they were currently in. And while it might have been easy to get out of the Hellish casino—Phantom was perfect for delivering people who changed their minds to the gates of regret—the Drewstein family was notoriously impossible to be free from. The ink let _no one go._

Perhaps they thought stealing something from one family would get that family to offer them freedom for the box back. Perhaps they hoped to flee, using whatever was in the thing to pay their way out. She wouldn’t know until she started taking care of things. Something made quite easy for her when the next one came strolling up, calling for his buddy. He managed to make a mention that “Tessa” was starting to worry. Then she was taking him to the offices for “one on one” time.

He dug nails into her arm as she opened the fire escape door, she crushed his skull in reply. The body was already trying to repair itself as she hefted it out, launching it to the tender care of those below. Another cutout had joined the first, and she once again nodded, sparing a glance at the gleeful imps. If they too were happy, then she was still good to whittle down the numbers. Back in the fray, she crept into the main room and began searching for a way to observe and listen without being seen. She could hear chatter now, but it was too hushed and the space didn’t allow for clear sound travel. She circled the upper floor, carefully noting the staircases leading down and where the voices got louder. No one else showed up, but she wouldn’t be surprised if they got antsy when two didn’t return. 

Finally after surveying the top floor, opening doors with none behind them to discover rooms full of junk, but nothing that matched the box, she realized she’d have to go downstairs. Not before yet another two wandered up, calling for their friends. She followed behind, watching them enter the room she’d declared “free game zone”, and entered after them. They managed to hear the door click shut before ones skull was splattered over them, and their jaw was being squeezed, nearly torn off.

“They took a dip, give me info, and I’ll keep you out the deep end. Scream and you’ll be so far behind the eight ball, whatever yer boss can do to ya will feel like heaven compared to what I’ll do. Understand?” She hissed, throwing the headless one down and stomping on the throat, making it near impossible for the ink to properly repair the body.The woman nodded, thick tears pouring down her cheeks.

“Got yer hands on a box I’m lookin to deliver, got any idea where it might be? Sent here by Devil’s main squeeze, maybe I’ll be able to work a sactuary deal fer ya into whatever reward I happen t’ get.” The woman shook her head as best she could in the tight grip. Porkrind frowned, and bent down to pick up the downed man by the shirt. The woman was forced to bend awkwardly, stuck in Porkrinds grip as she was, but that discomfort paled in comparison to watching Porkrind almost gleefully open the door and punt the future corpse out. Three cutouts winked at the woman, imps hissed gleefully at her, and then the door closedand Porkrind gave her the stage again.

“See, I’d believe ya don’t know what I’m gabbing about, but I know you know. First guy knew, didn’t talk, and was the first to go for a drive into regret town. Ey, I’m a nice gal, real nice, so I’ll forgive yer attempt to lie t’ me. Box, where is it.” She sounded amiable, but her expressionless face worked wonders to unnerve the woman. 

“We’re waiting for salvation.” The woman choked out, body writhing and shivering, ink slipping around the gouge in her side to show off her agitation. “He promised. We wanted to give him an offering though, the box needs to stay for us to offer proper praise.”

“Who?” Porkrinds brows furrowed, but it was all the emotion she showed. The woman shook her head, scrabbling at the hand trapping her face with one hand. The other drove a knife hidden in the sleeve into Porkrinds side. Porkrind looked down, grabbing the wrist and crushing it entirely. She looked up and tsked at the woman. “Almost feel like waiting here with ya fer the guy t’ show his face so I can tell ‘im how useless you’d be. Not even a vital area, damn shame really.” She thought to tighten her grip, then paused and shuffled back outside and pointed to the cutouts.

“I’ve got bones to break and mayhem to cause, you go play nice with them neighbors, alright?” And with that, the woman was tossed far enough that her arms couldn’t reach the escape to crawl back up. Jaw broken, she couldn’t even scream as her body splattered on the concrete, right in front of a cutout leaning against the wall. Porkrind listened to the gurgled noises of agony for a few seconds, shaking her head disappointedly. She gestured to the hole in her coat, the one right above her holster. The very holster that had easily taken the blade, leaving her unharmed, and gave the cutouts a look of “see this pathetic attempt?” Then she was inside once more and making for the stairs. She’d gotten her answer, and that’s all she needed. 

The next one she came across turned the corner to go up the stairs, and had their skull crushed against the wall. She strolled past the prone body, stomping hard on the neck just to slow the ink down that much more. The remaining five, hearing the commotion, called out. Her ears picked up the telltale noise of metal scraping on wood, and heaved a sigh through her open mouth. She was going to be smelling ink for the next century at this rate. But then, she supposed it was better than whatever they’d experience for their betrayal. She ducked behind the tall stacks of crates, using it to prowl the edge while peering through the slats for her prize. And of course, it was beside a very finicky ink-soaked man. One who didn’t have eyes, and saw her movement through the boxes as she saw him. 

He shouted, pointing at her. She wagged her finger scoldingly and sank further back. The group were in the center of the warehouse, where there was a sizeable empty space. But around the space were the stacks and aisles of crates, cables, and other items stored away. She fell into the aisles, keeping pace perpendicular to her pursuers. Right until she found a stack that wasn’t near as tall as the rest. The first had no time to stop, slipping on ink soaked slacks, then crushed under the crate Porkrind shoved off onto him. She was forced to duck to avoid gunfire, and let out a happy squeal. She did so _love_ when they gave her proof of “self-defense”. Her own weapon slid into her hand. She rounded the corner to shoot the one who’d been squashed against the wall right in their half reformed head. The next shot from her revolver nailed the one who’d hoped to surprise attack her from her right in their throat. She plucked them up from the ground and heaved them at the one missing their head. It was best to keep a nice neat pile. With three left, she didn’t really want any unforeseen surprises after all. She darted back up the stairs, loudly stomping up them, dragging one of the downed with her, leaving an inky trail. 

Using their headless torso, she dragged the leaking stump along the line of windows in the first room she found with windows in it. Then she shot at the first to enter the room, a smaller office, threw the body at the inky woman missing her entire sternum now, and with the finesse of an Olympian, heaved the closest steel desk up, and smashed it against the edge of the glass. She wasn’t aiming on breaking it by hitting it in the center, she’d dealt with these windows enough to know how poor an idea it was. No, the edge of the desk hit its mark, and the framing the window sat in buckled under the sheer force she put into the swing. One more blow, and the window warped, cracks spidered across it. Without pause, she threw the desk back behind her, crushing the two in the room under it. 

Another chair hit the glass, and as she sprint out of the room, as the shattering of a pane under too much duress and no longer bolstered by sigils, yet another desk heralded her escape. The metal took the hail of bullets aimed her way, and her heel cracked into it, launching it further down the hall. She sent them scattering in fright, likely never seeing someone do what they would only see as possible by the Projectionist or their former boss. She idly wondered if they’d ever be unfortunate enough to run into one of her boar brethren after whatever hell they were put through, or perhaps in whatever hell they were tossed in. But that wasn’t on the top of her mind. She stomped down on the wall crushed body, used the ink to slide her way into the main room once more instead of running into it. Something that proved wise after a hail of gunfire missed her by a good three feet, aimed where her torso would have been had she gone running in. 

She got behind the first aisle, adrenaline coursing through her veins, heart singing in exhilaration. When the last one outside the coward hiding in the center rounded the corner, axe held high, she twisted his arms clean off, kissed him on the forehead, and wished him luck in hell. His head was lobbed over the crates, right into the center. She wondered why they hadn’t just given up at that point, but chalked it up to crazies deluded by hopeful fantasies. 

“All this over one box? Do you even know whats in it?” She shouted, letting her booming voice fill the room, making it impossible to locate her from that alone. She scoured the outer walls as the man cursed her out, shrieking how she’d regret everything when “He” got wind of what happened. She didn’t pay it much mind, not until she found a door, found the lines of sigils keeping unwanted out, and wiped her ink stained shoes over the lines like they were a welcome mat. She knocked on the door three times, then sprint for the main course. She scaled the crates, using the gunfire spraying at random to hide the sound of her ascension. Finally on top, staring down at him and the prize, she took careful aim. 

The wrist holding the weapon splattered first, then she was descending, weight crushing the weaker boxes in on the edges. She rammed into him with the ferocity of a charging boar, his rail thin frame a twig to her. The box sailed into the air, and was caught by pristine gloved hands. The man, now on the ground and wheezing, locked up.

“Queen Dice.” He stammered up at the white-haired wife of the casino’s Don. She glanced down at him, and turned her focus back to Porkrind.

“Thank you,” She said, a pleased lilt to her divine voice. “Efficient as always. You can keep that chest, and consider the casino in your debt. I’m not fond of thinking of what would happen should this not have arrived on time.” Porkrind nodded, surprise decorating her ink-splattered face. The chest alone would have been enough if she was being honest, but to have a favor as well? While it was in her job description to get nosy, she was frankly too stunned to think to ask Queen what the box held or what made it so important. She blinked, and Queen was gone. Instead the man was struggling to get back up, weakly scrabbling for his weapon that had been knocked aside.

Porkrind put her hands on her hips. “Zombies wish they were as annoying as you.” She sassed, not remotely worried. Of course, she could hear the heels descending the stairs, could hear ink boiling on the upper floors as one with quite the temper got ahold of what was always hers to command above all else outside her twin. 

“Have I told you how yer my favorite detective?” 

The voice alone made the man burst into frantic scrabbling to get away from the opening closest to the stairs. Instead he crashed back into a body. Tilting his featureless face up, the light of the Projectionist clicked on, shining down on him. The speaker shrieked out a vile howl of animalistic wrath and he was dragged kicking and screaming into the shadows. 

“Can’t say I got that message recently.” Porkrind replied, trying to shake off the shivers. Her least favorite of the things the one entering the light had under her command was the Projectionist. Not because the thing was terrifying, but because he was loud, and her ears were sensitive.“Don.” She nodded politely to the head of the Drewstein family, uncaring of her ink splattered state. It wouldn’t matter much anyway. The woman across from her nodded in turn, white gloved hands lazily by her sides, pitch black dress suit seemingly absorbing the light. Her deathly white flesh made the tar black lipstick stand out starkly, only enhancing the effect of the wide, hardly friendly grin. Coal black eyes surveyed her, then the surrounding crates, and she spoke.

“Damn shame really, love the shows you put on. I’d like to apologize though, not one fer letting outside help in on family matters like this.”

“Understandable really, wasn’t a hassle though. Not unless you count hearing someone scream t’ the heavens how some mystery man gonna sweep me off my mortal feet and put me square on the tracks of the Express.”

“Oh?” The Don put her hands on her hips, intrigued as the Musician slid out of a portal behind her. The masked woman didn’t even have to be told to be silent by her boss, she simply stood at her right-hand side and waited. 

“Never got a name, just told they were offering what didn’t belong to them to some mystery fellow. Figure it’s a family thing though.” Porkrind shrugged and the Don nodded.

“Interesting! That’s a first, ain’t it Sammy?” The don nudged her lackey.

“It is indeed my Lady.”

“First we get a show, then we get a tidbit, all on top of avoiding dirtying our hands with the casino! And fer nothin! Well now that doesn’t feel right, does it Sammy?”

“No it doesn’t my Lady.” Shee dutifully answered, reverence dripping from every syllable. 

“Tell you what, I’ll consider ourselves in yer debt too, one favor fer free, it’s yer lucky night!” The Don spoke after a moment of silent thought. Porkrind huffed.

“Too kind, must be a blue moon for my luck to be this good!” The don gave her a sharp grin.

“I ain’t one for unnecessary wars, nor am I keen on not so nice surprises. Not so soon before my court date. Messy nights like this are best kept as clean as possible and—”

“Court?” Porkrind interrupted, suddenly far more tense than before. Later on she’d bang her head on her desk and start flipping through her tome of deities to figure out whos ass she had to start kissing for the continued luck, but now, she only though of one thing. Sammy tensed as well, mask frowning in irritation. Her Don shifted, and she settled. The Don only seemed amused, likely still enjoying the ink-bath the night had become to be annoyed.

“Little snitch done caught me and I ran out of favors in the big house, so I need to make a little visit t’ get the matter taken care of. Pay a visit to a judge and all that.”

“My favor, I’m using it now.” Porkrind spoke hurriedly, as if afraid the Don would leave before she could speak. The cool features of the ghostly white woman bloomed with interest and she nodded, almost confused at the harried look of the once calm detective.

“Don’t hurt the judge, don’t matter who you get, don’t threaten them, don’t scare em, don’t antagonize or make disappear or drown or whatever it is you were planning. Please.” Porkrind tacked on swiftly before she could antagonize the Musician any more than she likely already had. 

“Not a single hand of mine or those under me will so much as wave disapprovingly at the judge, that I vow.” The don replied, brows arched high, visibly curious. “You ain’t one to waste favors like this but I’m not complaining.” 

“Thank you, Don Jendy.” Porkrind responded, not answering the silent question. She’d have to make a phone call once she got back home and hope her nieces weren’t too disturbed by the late call, but it was better to be safe than sorry. “I’ll leave the rest to you then?” She was waved off by the Don who was already focused on the collateral damage. Sammy nodded at her, and she swore she caught a flicker of light from the Projectionist drifting through the aisles, likely looking for more victims. She left as the Projectionsit found the one trapped under the crate, practically sprinting through the streets to get back to her house. 

All thoughts of phantom threats and impish followers or inky watchers in the furthest recesses of her mind.


	2. Dirty Ink Stains.

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Courts could only ever be amusing for one who was nigh untouchable to the law. Especially so to a Don who'd been at it long enough to know a silly little hearing would end in her favor no matter the outcome.  
> As a side warning, as previously stated, every other chapter is Porkrind, the rest vary to other characters. To also note, the start of a potential pairing begins as well.

A house for many was a sanctuary. It was a place of refuge, from the humble cardboard box to the most grand mansion. It was a place to hide from the rest of the world, protect oneself from the elements, and simply do whatever it was the heart desired in walls that could tell no tales. Rare was it that homes weren’t revered in some manner, but that only when the home fell under attack. When it failed to do as it was intended and left the occupants vulnerable. At least, that’s what the average joe on the streets would ramble about if asked. The poetic might go on about how the home was a true reflection of the soul.

But the Don would never be poetic. Nor would she ever show any care to the walls that had once bound her so hatefully. Before the family had become what it was, hobbled and trapped in a decrepit waste of wood and steel, feasting on the same schmucks she currently emulated. The days of old weren’t hers or her technical twins highlights of life, and both went to pains to never fall back to the travesty of time that their past had been. To include the grand windows in her main office that she currently stared out of, watching her minions trail streaks of ink along the wet ground, repairing what the rain had washed and weakened. The studio had been a horror show of building code violations, as her darling creator loved repeating back when he could. Not a single hope to see anything beyond the same sepia toned hell build just for her by their bitch of another creator. Besides, windows were no weakness for her.

Her black painted lips pursed as the door behind her creaked open. They never knocked on her door, they knew better. She _always_ knew where they were, when they wanted her attention, and if she gave them no signal, it was her way of acquiescing to their presence. The moonlight bathed her off-white grey flesh in cool blues, and she turned slightly, just enough to let her most loyal get sight of her profile. The musician didn’t hunch her shoulders as she had before, and certainly didn’t cower under the others gaze like before. No matter how rapturous one was, to come face to face with the less than benevolent entity worshipped as a god, well, it was traumatic for the most broken.

Sammy tilted her head, keeping her head bowed, her ink marred face devoid of solid features tilted so the mask faced the Don.

“They’re waiting for your judgement my Lord.” The musicians voice was pleasant enough, but the message is what made a _nasty_ smile curl up snow grey cheeks. Wickedly sharp teeth bared in the light of the moon, then, she was sinking into the ink. Leaving the musician alone in the office. But the woman wouldn’t stay and wait, oh no. She left just as quickly, free from her duties now that the traitorous rats had been caught. It was her favorite time of day, second only to her time spent with her Lord or the Lady when she graced them with her lawful presence. If her Lord wanted her, all she’d ever need to do is pull and any she wanted would be at her side. But when she was at work, none could do or match her unholy wrath.

Down in the depths, away from the revered windows, sealed in rooms blackened with ink and impenetrable by most anything, the three who’d survived the brutal shredding cowered. Not bound, but they didn’t have to be, the ink refused to give them any limbs, even to the ones whose bodies weren’t used to the ink, weren’t as saturated yet. It was agony for them and their bodies, but the ink, even if it could, wouldn’t have cared. Nor did the Don. She stood above them, pinstripe pants cutting a pristine black line on the sliver of white ankle that showed below them and above the kitten heels.

She looked at them like an aristocrat looked at filth. Looking down her narrow, petite nose in pure disgust. Coal black eyes vitriolic as the sneer parting perfectly painted black lips.

“Y’ know. I like t’ think I’m nice. It’s a fantasy of mine, can’t help it.” Her voice, smooth alto, a purr of hidden malevolence that only made the worms before her cower. Or perhaps slugs was better, if she felt like taking the terms used by her third in command. “But then I get bozos like _you._ Makin it so hard t’ do what creator so _dearly_ wanted from me and the wimp.” She started to stroll before them, not quite pacing, but patiently moving before each one, feeding on the near rabid fear from them.

“Was it somethin’ I said?” She paused before the one who’d been attempting to wiggle over to where they thought the door had been when she’d entered. The one below her curled, crunching their limbless torso inwards to become smaller. No one answered her, despite the minute of pause she allowed them. She frowned then, and it was only at that moment they all realized. They had no chance.

Her hand snapped out, growing unnaturally long at the behest of her beloved ink, hauling them easily from the ground by their eye sockets and mouth. Her nails drove into the soft orbs, splitting the remaining one like a grape. The nail in his mouth cut right into the upper palette, and she listened to his shriek of unbelievable agony, the ink enhancing the pain tenfold.

“Yer not speakin’ now. But you were so vocal before! I got a real good earful when youse was goin’ on an’ on t’ the detective. But now yer silent?” She tsked, driving her fingers further in. She didn’t have to take her eyes from the one under her mercy to see the way the others went ghastly pale and began wavering in undiluted terror, bodies straining to return to the ink, but the ink refused them. It had countless souls, well into the hundreds of thousands by now. To lose a mere three was nothing to it, and if it was what the Don wanted, its’ what she’d get. They’d have no reprieve. No second chances.

“You fella’s wanna fill yer beloved Boss in on who youse was rantin about? Sing fer me and it might get ya from behind the eight ball, y’ hear me?” She bared her wicked teeth in a vile grin meant only in passing to be quaint. But the one in her hands could not longer see, and screaming wasn’t an option when the ink was shredding the vocal chords it’d been so kind to let him keep. She dragged the writhing slug of a soul behind her to the next one, the woman. Swiftly, before the woman could react, she plant her heel on the already broken ribs courtesy of her darling Projectionist. The woman wheezed, groaning and straining to escape the source of pain.

“I didn’t let yer keep yer throat just t’ hear pleas fer mercy. One way or another I’ll find out what made you rats think ya’ could ever take the crown from me.” The room, however impossible, darkened further, her face ghost like now in the shadows and just as terrifying. When the woman only whimpered, the Don didn’t take her heel off the broken chest, digging the heel itself into one of the breaks instead. She let the woman wail in pain as she returned her focus to the one gurgling on inky blood. His jaw tried working, but she knew what he was trying to do, and scoffed as she dug her other hand into his mouth, tearing his jaw off in one motion. He writhed, choking and letting out horrifyingly airy rasps but the Don was unmoved even with the forceful body shakes.

“Useless don’t stay in this family. I’d a thought you’d know this. And stop me if I’m wrong.” She shoved her nails deeper into the eye sockets, listening to the pleasant crack of paper thin bone acting as the last barrier the soft grey matter had against her claws. “But didn’t you bastards come t’ my door beggin fer my mercy before?” She wasn’t wrong. They all knew they’d prostrated themselves before her all those months ago, hoping to escape the mass slaughter coming to the gang they’d once been apart of all knew was soon to be assimilated to the ink family. And of course, finding it pathetically funny, she’d agreed. She really needed to quit doing that if this was the result though, she thought. Because the last she checked, the rest of the gang was still shambling outside drawing lines in the perimeter of their grand home at her behest. Evidently taking strays wasn’t as good an idea as her other side had hoped, and she couldn’t wait to rub it into the goody cops face later. Which reminded her, she needed to rest soon to get her souls sorted so she could present at least a mildly amiable face in court. The detective had cashed in quite the favor and she wasn’t going to sully her word so callously because word of a traitor out and about speaking about being able to free souls from her ink was influencing her servants.

As such, with that in mind, she cracked the skull in her hands apart the way one would an egg, letting the body drop before the last untouched one. Then turned her _loving_ attention to the one under her heel. She’d given them a chance, it wasn’t her fault they didn’t take it up.

\---

The first person she expected to see in the morning wasn’t exactly her other half. The sweeter face, the kinder features still twinged with devious quirked lips, it was pleasant to some, but to her, she merely scowled at the sight. Kicking her heels up on her desk, she ignored how the other was clearly waiting for her to start. When she made no move to be nice, the other rolled her eyes and started, a file in her hands.

“Word on the block is you got caught. Gotta sing before the scales now huh?” The officer, in her crisp black uniform—the only she could wear despite the precincts attempts—spoke with deceptive casualness. The Don snickered, playing with a pen from her desk. “See, lucky fer you, I got insider info on who yer gonna be seeing. Unlucky fer the both of us, I know this judge. I like this judge.”

“Porkrind made me vow t’ not hurt a pretty hair on whatever crotchety schmuck I get. Do I get a jury?”

“No, Jendy, you don’t. It’s a small claim and the judge is only doing this because no one else wanted to. They—rightfully—think yer gonna off whoever lets you in their courtroom but I’m telling you you can’t do that to this one.”

“What? Bendy’s gonna outdo me in the thing we both know likes me best?” The officer slammed her hands on the desk, nearly cracking the heavy oak. Her technical twin reared back in surprise, the pen flying out of her hands. Bendy’s face flushed bright grey, the ink in the room shivered like heat was within it.

“I’ll sure as hell do my best! Don’t do _anything_ to them! And fer all that is good in us, be _polite._ Try not t’ make the world think we’re nothin’ but uncouth jackasses. Creator didn’t sacrifice what he did just for us to slander all he gave.” Bendy seethed, and because it was not only the second person making her swear to not hurt the court, but her other half of all people, she found herself grinning in sly agreement.

“I made a deal Bendy. I ain’t got any ability t’ ignore it, and none of either of ours will dare ignore our demands. None of em were t’ touch th’ court. I swear I’ll be on my best behavior, hows that?”

“You _better_. I swear if you aren’t I’ll make Sammy play the chicken dance every time you enter a room.” With that, the cop turned on her heel and slipped into the ink, not bothering to take the door. Without being there, and before she could settle back, her voice echoed in the room. “And for hell’s sake be on time! You have an hour. If you’re even two minutes late I’m taking your appearance and agreeing to everything judge puts on the table!”

“You got a deal with this judge or something?!” Jendy snapped back, rocking to her feet swiftly at the threat. No response was given, the other choosing not to, likely getting herself ready for whatever it was she did. Jendy slumped back down, grumbling even as Sammy entered the room to fill her in on her schedule for the day.

***

Inkwell wasn’t a grand city. It wasn’t a lustrous city full of grand futures and wonderful promises of bright hopes. But it wasn’t a ramshackle hovel either. It was an enduring town that took whatever oddities Hell and the Drewstein family threw its way with impressive aplomb. And in return, it was protected by the strongest families. Dissidents were stomped out of existence, average ruffians were ignored for as long as the didn’t do true harm, and the police force, unlike many outside the borders, prided itself in being free from corruption. The gears of the justice system ran smooth as could be.

Some could point to one of the captains of the force being related to the Don of a mafia family as proof even a city such as Inkwell wasn’t free. But they only had to wait to see the veritable twins get into a brutal scuffle that often ended in nasty damage to unfortunate passerbys to see that no amount of family loyalty lied between the two. Even as the Don strolled like a predator through the streets, the police showed no difference to her, no extra attention, all aware none was needed. She herself kept her hands in her sleek jacket pockets, heels clicking a steady rhythm as she approached the grand courthouse. A beautiful work of art as noble in appearance as the intention behind the very idea of justice was.

At her side was her third in command because out of all of them, Alice cut the least terrifying figure. He was muscled, with broad shoulders and clearly defined strength hidden poorly under sleeves he rolled up to his elbows and the jacket he used more like a cape than an actual jacket. He stood a head above his boss, and yet, if any were to avoid them, it would be the shorter woman they’d dive out the path of. Alice, with his aristocratic features that could twist in a demonic skeletal hellish mess of flesh and bone and hate, preferred giving those on the streets a visual taste of what they couldn’t have. At least it was how he put it. Jendy didn’t much care, but she certainly wasn’t going to go into court alone with no way of enforcing her word.

Speaking of, she met Porkrind outside the courthouse. The detective looked nervous, but not for approaching someone with the strength to wipe out entire city blocks on a whim. No, she was nervous for the one inside.

“Don’t take offense, but I can’t help but worry for my nieces. Both are dear t’ me, so forgive me for not being able to stay in my shop fer this.” The hefty woman remarked, eyes stable on the shorter woman. Jendy quirked a smile, it wasn’t that pleasant a smile, but it wasn’t vitriolic. Simply teasingly curious.

“Don’t worry Porkrind, nothin from our family’ll harm a hair on whoever it is you’re protecting.” Alice soothed, his arms flexing just a hair, as if emphasizing he would be the one to enforce it. Porkrind nodded and opened the door for them, letting them into the classical building and bathing them both in the scent of powerful magic dampeners. Instantly her head felt stuffy, an odd feeling for one without any sinuses, and Jendy scowled. The feeling lessened when she herself eased up on her presence, letting the ink sink back enough to settle whatever was put within the walls to protect those inside. The place had been built with those like her in mind after all. Walls constructed with material bent to suppress truly hostile magics and intents as best it could as passive as material was. While it could never prevent some rando from shooting up a court room, it could certainly prevent a telepath from reading or manipulating minds. Or a demon from possessing the court, or several other things that threatened the perceived fairness of an impartial trial.

But the Don wasn’t there for a major trial. She’d been feeling like she was getting rusty and wanted to do a little dirty work herself. Only, she really had been getting rusty, her target hadn’t exactly been the best one. She’d been caught only enough to be seen. If the incoming stock soaked in ink and sinking into said puddle of ink wasn’t enough of a clue. Even worse was that an officer had been near. There was no shame in running from the neutral ground when said enforcers of the neutral ground were livid and had the means of making almost anyone suffer under their wrath. There was a reason that store had managed to remain neutral despite the two main opposing factions being a literal Ink Demon and the actual Ruler of Hell. Jendy couldn’t exactly respect them any more than she already did though, not unless she wanted to up their stance in her eyes from ‘tolerable’ to ‘acquaintance’. The only shame she felt—however slight—had been the fact that it was Bendy serving the papers.

“You can’t be serious.” She could recall saying. Bendy had grinned, it’d been funny to the other that out of all the things Jendy did, it was stealing from the neutral zone that got her her time in court. Bendy had been laughing so hard that serving the papers had amounted to her cackling, wobbling over to the desk, and smacking the papers down on her desk while falling back into the ink to laugh uproariously where only Jendy and literally every other thing in the ink could hear. She’d been served, and originally had intended to just wander over their way, repay the amount she owed, whatever it was they were asking, then be done with it. Mostly because there was genuinely no way she’d ever consider actually drowning them in her ink. She got the distinct impression they’d make her regret it one way or another and she wasn’t keen to have that sort of mayhem in her ink. Stuff was wild at the best of times.

But then Jendy had paused. She was _bored._ Unbelievably bored and looking for the slightest thing to entertain her. The theft of course, hadn’t really been her seeing if she still had it, she’d simply been looking for something to do. It was just her luck she was caught, and if she didn’t know speaking ill of the wife of the ruler of hell would absolutely get her a nasty visit, she’d have ranted at the woman. Instead she’d just leaned back in her chair, reading the papers over and over again, soaking it in. Bendy, after ten obnoxious minutes, had come out expecting her to have called over one of the souls to give her the coin and just settle it out of court.

Jendy didn’t.

And even then, Bendy had been amused more than anything. It was only when the judge was assigned to her case that she got tight-lipped and tense. Which had been the icing on the cake and the sole reason she was absolutely going now. Even if Porkrind hadn’t piqued her interest, she’d have been tempted to just skip the show and let the cops try and get her on a warrant none of their papers would show her actually having. Ink was a funny thing when it had a master to listen to. But now, there she was, walking through the marble halls to her first ever trial. She hoped the other side hadn’t brought the damn shotgun. Ink, demon, angel, hobo with issues, it didn’t matter what, the thing had a way of making every shot _hurt._ And the floral broad was a different beast entirely no one that didn’t have access to hellfire wanted to even consider tangling with. And if that man who—despite being a guy named Bon Bon of all things—was present, it was a guarantee Cagney was.

She almost pitied the judge, really she did. It would be a stunner of a hearing for sure. Jendy had even practiced! She’d rehearsed exactly how smug or blatantly not apologetic to appear and sound. It was exciting, so much so she didn’t even spare a thought to how Bendy was also waiting for her in the court room itself. The average gawkers were present, people who liked watching legal verbal spats. Jendy didn’t get it, but then she’d gotten a solid ten minutes of entertainment from watching a searcher thwack into a wall repeatedly because he couldn’t figure out why he wasn’t going into the ink instead.

Before she sat down, she was hauled back by one arm by her technical twin behind the thigh high gate separating the rabble from the legal proceedings. She hoped they didn’t actually expect such a pathetic gate to protect the judge from a mob, not that she planned for such a thing, she’d given her word. She was aiming more to make the judge burst into tears, perhaps get the bailiff to try and shoot her, she wasn’t sure on that one.

“Don’t embarrass me or I swear I’ll end you right on the courthouse steps.” The other hissed, pleasant smile remaining staunchly bubbly the entire time. There was murder in those pie-cut eyes that no batting of lashes could hide, Jendy wasn’t fooled. She scoffed, her arm melted and reformed away from the tight grip, and then she waved at the prosecution. Bon Bon, a tall, lean but broad-shouldered inhuman man squint at him. Cagney, an even taller forest entity of some unknown type gave her the stare a mother did moments before she got the belt in on the issue.

“Don’t they usually separate us out so we don’t come to blows in front of justice over there?” Jendy leaned back to murmur. Bendy narrowed her eyes.

“Not for these, and not with that bailiff. And I swear if you try and get either to punch you I’ll do it myself.” She sharply gestured to the woman by the upper area where the judge was to sit. Jendy hadn’t noticed her, too focused on everything else. A woman with flesh as pale as Jendy’s and sharp, candy-red hair that curled so much she doubted there was any hope of keeping to regulations with it. It was short, a bit past her chin, and that was as close to regulation as it got. She appeared almost bored had it not been the observant glint in cherry red eyes that made Jendy feel like she was being judged already. She debated giving an inhumanly sharp smile, then decided that the baton Bendy was reaching for—cops and the perks they got, it wasn’t fair if one were to ask the Don—was decent enough deterrent.

Jendy didn’t question the lack of lawyer either. She’d eaten around fifteen, and all of them were whispering in their special corner of mayhem. She was even more confident the other side was just as prepared though, likely not even needing such a thing. Bendy, still leaning over the gate, continued trying to fill her in. Jendy got the distinct impression she was only doing it to keep Jendy distracted and in line. Which was fun, and the reason it worked.

“She’s the sister of the judge, Alice ain’t got nothin on her aim so trying anything t’ assault the judge’ll get ya shot.”

“That’s insulting to Alice.”

“No my Lord, my Lady is correct. We tested it. She was fantastic.”

“I know what you’re thinking, and you can’t sit until the judge gets in.”

“What time was this merry little waste of time supposed to happen?” Jendy whispered back, watch forming on her wrist sluggishly. It was useless, the ink couldn’t tell time either, but it was the show that counted. Of course, right as she said that, the door behind the upper area creaked open, and the courtroom fell silent. Jendy was glad, she didn’t think she could wait another minute to see whatever crotchety goblin-like old—angelic, purely gorgeous, radiating so much beauty the veritable epitome of loveliness could tell them she was the goddess of looks herself and Jendy would believe it in a heartbeat. Jendy wasn’t sure if her jaw was hanging open, she didn’t care. Nothing else mattered the exact second the judge—a saint, it had to be, heaven had to have sent one of their saints down—fell into view.

Hair, long hair, long soft powder blue hair in a nice, neat, sensible braid that fell over one shoulder. It looked to have been made of clouds and never more in Jendy’s life had she wanted to touch something. Electric blue eyes so vivid they nearly glowed, and were just as soft as her hair as they swept over the room. Skin milky white, like porcelain, like the sister actually, but where the bailiff had a red tint, the judge was all soft tints and delicate shades. The robe did its best to hide the curves beneath but frankly the only thing that would have come close to doing anything of that sort would have been a blanket pinned in front of her. But the thing Jendy caught and kept her attention most were the delicate, thin hands.

She took it back. She would _kill_ to hold the judges hand for even a minute.

The judge looked out over the room as her bailiff introduced her and the stenographer got to work.

“Judge Mugs presiding over Cagney Carnation and Baron von Bon Bon versus Jendy Drewstein.” Her voice was strong and loud, easily heard by all in the room, acoustics be damned. She hadn’t had to tell the court to stand, everyone did it the moment the doors opened. Now, with the judge smiling with petal soft full lips a silky shade of rose, they waited for her to allow them back down. Something she did with a jovial motion for them to sit back down. She continued standing for a moment longer, looking at Jendy with a tilt to her pretty head. There was a cough, and then something smacked into the back of Jendy’s knees and she was crashing down onto the chair behind her.

Anywhere else, before anyone else, she’d have turned and let the Projectionist have at the moron. But the moron was her technical twin who had a level of apoplectic rage never seen before. Jendy would later be confident her only saving grace was the fact that not only were there witnesses, but the confusion mixed with that rage dulled her reaction down to just forcing the other to be seated. Finally, the judge sat, still smiling, but no longer focused on the only one aside from the bailiff who hadn’t sat down.

‘What are you doing?!’ Came a hiss through the ink.

‘Pretty…so pretty.’ Was the incoherent babble that came back.

“Good morning.”

Jendy would later look into starting a shrine for tables because it was the one thing that kept everyone important—read: the judge—from seeing her legs melt into a puddle and her lower body fight to stay in one shape. Her spine was a lost cause, she just slumped on the chair back and made it work as hard as it ever had in its long wooden life. She wasn’t going to make it, she was going to start crying from the intensity of perfection before her, which was going to muck up her image and then she’d have to move away and become a hermit out of shame for embarrassing herself before the single most wonderful person she’d seen in her life. The court room answered back politely. Cagney nudged Bon Bon and pointed at the almost slack-jawed Don. Both took in the literal star shapes in her wide eyes and had to fight to keep their faces neutral.

The two gave credit to the bailiff, they knew she was holding back laughter, it was in the shake of her almost rigid shoulders. The officer however, was fighting desperately to melt as well into the chair, trying to appear as distant from her likeness as she could without outright moving and drawing more attention to herself. But the duo saw, as did those closest to the spectacle. It was by pure chance that the judge was looking down at the documents for the case that it wasn’t seen by her too.

“Now I know I’ve got the case before me but I much prefer hearing it from the source.” Judge Mugs gestured one hand that was tracked religiously by the Don, over at the prosecution.

“Of course, Judge.” It was Bon Bon who took to task. Explaining in rather colorful detail the scene of the crime as well as the photographs they had to have gotten that snoopy clown to take. He went into excruciating descriptions that left the audience leaning heavily in their chairs and the judge with a friendly, if neutral, face, fingers laced together before her. By the end, many were squinting harshly at Jendy, vitriolic until Alice’s gaze swept the room and cowed the lot of them. With one who had a memory as he did, it was best to not show aggression that would be remembered and dealt with.

“Thank you,” The judge didn’t show the same level, it was almost as if she was waiting for something else. That something turned out to be Jendy’s side of things. “Do you have anything to add? Your own version perhaps?” Patient and pretty.

“Pretty.” Jendy parroted her minds only thought.

The chair supporting Bendy creaked as the woman dug her nails into the poor piece of furniture. Through the bars she lashed one leg out, kicking Jendy’s chair and sending the woman into a coughing fit of surprise.

“Pretty sure! That uh” Jendy paused after regaining her composure. “That’s not exactly how I remember it.” Really it was how she remembered it, but Jendy would profess her love of the church if it meant spending more time with the gorgeous dame. “I uh, I recall differently.”

“By all means!” The judge was so _sweet._ She even wiggled in her seat, excited to hear both sides. Jendy’s mind, or more, the ink, went on a dumpster dive, shoving as many gawking morons down as it could and replacing them with competent souls at the behest of the other main star of the inky show.

“I recall walkin down the street all innocent, as is my right, might I add.” Jendy, in fact, added, side-eyeing the now entirely amused prosecution. “And yes, I do recall having decided t’ go the back way. Lady like myself gotta be cautious with them ruffian types about.”

“It was real dark, and I’d left my glasses back home, and yeah there was a supply drop goin’ down all quick like but I swear on my mothers grave I didn’t touch anything of theirs. Don’t got the stomach for it.”

The souls inside cheered, the souls still themselves collectively slapped their palms to their foreheads and wondered if demonic ink could pray, and if so, what bored deity would hear it and take pity. Someone in the audience whispered not softly enough “they have a mother? I didn’t think the gates of Hell counted as a—” they were cut off by Alice oh so casually leaning in their direction, his height and presence stifling. The judge nodded politely, ignoring the audience with aplomb and grace Jendy had only ever seen in the other Don’s wife. Except with none of the dripping disdain and not so blatant malicious amusement.

“That’s well and good, but statements have been included that I’d hoped to get a bit of clarification on.” The judge shuffled some papers, swiftly flicking through them until she found the right page.

“I’ll clarify anything’ you want darlin’.” Jendy said before her mind could clear the sentence, her posture slumped and lax. The judge paused, one brow slowly raising while her bailiff’s eyes began to narrow. Jendy’s mouth, seeing the grave for what it was, went for broke even as the rest of her tensed to melt into the floor and test the freezing point of ink by moving to the tundra. “Because lady justice over there can’t do what she’s meant to do without clarity!” She didn’t awkwardly laugh at the end, and it was the little victories that kept her going at this point.

“Thank you! Really it’s just a few photos and witness statements with things they claim you said.” She passed a pair of photos down to her bailiff who took them and just about prowled over to Jendy’s side. The way she set the pictures down without breaking eye contact spoke _volumes._ Jendy could almost see the others teeth cracking from how tightly her jaw was clenched. She was surprised the photos hadn’t spontaneously combust the moment the bailiff touched them. She held the photos up to better see them and felt Bendy lean closer to see as well.

Honestly it was the place they were in and the desire from both now to avoid a sibling fight that kept Bendy from smacking the back of Jendy’s head. The sizzling spot on the back of her head said enough though.

“There’s one that shows you pointing and laughing at a rather distressed looking Ms. Carnation.” The judge continued, pretending no one could see the grey bloom brighter and brighter over white cheeks. “The other one is a message supposedly left by the culprit,” There were curse words in that statement, ones it was clear the judge would not say in a court of law. “And the final one with a rather rude hand taking the palette of flour. I’m sure it can be forgiven that I can’t show the last two photographs.”

“Your honor, it’s quite clear she’s lying, we have photo proof she did it, she’s just stalling.” Cagney spoke up, looking eager as ever to get out of the courtroom.

“Could be anyone, or did you two forget shapeshifters are a thing.” Jendy immediately decided to dredge that lawyer up and out and give him new life, he’d earned it right then and there.

“Could someone else have the same control over ink as shown in these images?” The judge asked, and Jendy’s bow fluffed in indignation.

“They couldn’t make the ink write their epitaph much less what I… appear to have been shown doing. But black paint is a thing!” Jendy’s voice cracked in the middle of her sentence, luckily cutting her off midway through admitting her guilt. She was never going near the restaurant again, she couldn’t. She’d have to kill everyone in the audience to hide her shame. It was going to take two gang wipeouts to fix the damage her reputation was surely taking. She didn’t miss how her third in command muttered into the ink something about nothing being enough to fix the brain damage sustained by gawking at judges.

“We scraped some off the brickwork and the ground. It’s ink.” Bon Bon hissed. He held up a little jar, and the bailiff took it from him, walking over to the judge. Jendy leaned one elbow on the table, trying to appear bored and nonchalant. And it would have worked had she not gotten lost in electric blue eyes despite how they weren’t even looking at her. Not until she was making a confused noise and Bendy was making noises akin to nails on a chalkboard in the ink that she came to her senses in time to see the ink in the jar make a little heart shape clear as day to the future acceptable casualties sitting behind her.

“I say ‘we’ but what I mean to say is the police scraped that. It bit one of them.”

“That was you?!” Bendy hissed aloud, glaring hellfire at her technical twin.

“He shouldn’t’a put his grubby hands on what don’t want em!” Jendy sneered back with equal vitriol. Alice stared into the void, wishing dearly for it to drown him. Jendy, realization dawning, turned back smooth as could be, lacing her fingers together and resting them on the table before her.

“What kinda jail time we talkin here?” She got out, and really she was proud of how smooth it was. Proud until the bright, _wonderful_ grin sprang up on the judges face. She melted. Literally. Her perfect hairline dripped into her eyes and it took Bendy harshly kicking her chair for her to notice.

“If the audience would be so kind as to refrain from assaulting the chairs, we aren’t funded enough to replace anymore.” The judge spoke clearly, with just a hint more power in her warm, bell clear mezzo soprano voice. Her thick, darker blue lashes dipped halfway over her eyes in amusement. Bendy’s face flared an immediate bright grey and she weakly apologized, ducking her head low and sinking lower still in her seat. Alice could have subtly moved to put himself in a better place to hide the current embarrassments.

He didn’t.

They would both remember his sleight in his time of need.

“Ms. Carnation and Mr. Bon Bon have been kind enough to agree to other potential methods.”

“Only because you’d kill the court.” Bon Bon griped, arms crossed. And Jendy would have let a bit of her far more hostile side come out, gleefully would have gone into reminding the two that no amount of neutrality saved those who truly earned her ire. That she wasn’t a Don for nothing and had other means of ridding people of the gift of life aside from drowning them in ink. But the judge was clearing her throat quite blatantly, and immediately both sides were cowed. After a moment of silence, the judge continued.

“I’m not fond of sending every wrong-doer to prison because its never truly clear whether they’re merely down on their luck or don’t understand the significance of their crimes. So, to avoid such a thing, I’m always quite eager for different means of making up for mistakes, rehabilitation if you will. The prosecution has agreed to such a term.” She paused to pull the paper out from the small pile. She double checked to be sure she had Jendy’s attention. She didn’t have to though, nothing outside of the world ending would have taken Jendy’s eyes from the other. Even then it was with full confidence that Jendy would admit she’d go above and beyond to be sure her last vision was of the grace of loveliness before her eyes.

“Work in the store, or restaurant, for two months. Your pay will go to the restitution of lost goods. Or you could take the jail time of one year. It’s up to--”

“Boss ain’t no lackey! What kinda--” An inky audience member snapped. In some distant part of both Bendy and Jendy’s minds, it was nice to know they were, in fact, loved enough that their souls were offended at the idea of their Don getting her hands dirty like a commoner. That part, however, was so distant that the overwhelming fury at someone daring to raise their voice to the judge didn’t even register on its lonely little radar. The inky soul gagged and began to writhe. Jendy stared ahead blankly with wide, cold eyes, nails burrowing into the back of her hands. Her smile almost plastic in appearance. It writhed as hands rising from the pool of ink growing beneath it began to grab onto anything they could, dragging the soul into the void below. It gave out one last gurgling wail to the silent court room before it vanished and the pool of ink seeped into the shadows.

Notably, the bailiff was closer to her sister than before and both Cagney and Bon Bon looked mildly disturbed. It was Bendy who spoke after a full minute had passed.

“He’s not dead.”

Which, being fair to her, was a decent thing to say in the court of law to avoid anyone thinking they’d just witnessed a murder.

“Gonna _wish_ he was, disrespectin Doll like—” Jendy muttered with pure vitriol through her teeth in a harsh whisper like she was fighting herself. She was. She wanted nothing more than to keep admiring the one before her, but also go into the ink, roll up her sleeves and knock the fear of what laid beyond the ink for souls Jendy got her nails into back into the soul. Once again Bendy saved her by pretending to adjust her bowtie wrong and loudly wheeze.

“That’s good to know, it would be quite strange to sit in the witness booth when I’m so used to sitting here.” Judge Mugs waved a hand at the chair she sat in. The bailiff scoffed good naturedly in her sister’s direction. Jendy’s bowtie fluffed in glee at the jovial note to the judges voice. “But, if nothing has occurred that should interrupt this trial, I would like to hear what you’d prefer to do, Ms. Drewstein.”

“Marry you.” The screaming was back. Later Jendy would dig through the thousands of souls in her to find the bastards that kept mucking up her usual suave appearance but for now she threw everything into trying to reel it back. “Merry you’re kind enough! To give me the chance, of uh, no jail time. Orange don’t do well on me. As for working for those two…”

Cagney, leaning her cheek heavily on her elbow, facing Jendy, spoke plainly. “She visits our shop often.”

“Done deal.” Jendy immediately agreed almost mechanically. “’Wait how often.”

“Every three days.”

“Done deal.”

“Wonderful!” The judge lightly tapped the gavel, very blatantly ignoring Cagney’s statement. She had the papers up and back in the folder, speaking softly to her sister, likely about the next proceeding she was to oversee. The prosecution left first. Mostly because they had to sprint to the nearest restroom to burst into fits of laughter vaguely in private away from the ink Don. The defense had to be dragged physically away by Bendy who couldn’t recall the last time she’d been so grey in the face.

“Leave it to the off-model to embarrass me in front of my dance partner of all people. Couldn’t be stupid confident and respectful, nooo, had to make a fool of me.” Bendy grumbled heatedly under her breath as she hauled Jendy out by her jacket lapel. It was only once the judge vanished behind the courtroom doors and Jendy’s sluggish mind helpfully replayed what her technical sister had said that she just about leapt onto the officer. It was lucky enough that they were outside to allow the ink to easily catch both and send them to the roof of the highrise next to the court.

“You know her?!” Jendy didn’t much notice how her perfectly kept hair rolls were falling out of place in her harried disbelief. “You’ve _danced_ with her?!” She had Bendy by her bowtie and collar, shoving the stunned other into the cold, wet rooftop.

“Get off! I told you to behave! She’s one of the most pleasant people I’ve gotten to dance with in class and you just made it so I can never show her my face ever again! I’ll have to change precincts at this rate!” Bendy curled, getting her heel between herself and Jendy’s midsection, kicking out harshly to force the other up and off her.

“I can’t believe you got t’ hold her hand! You… _you held her hand._ ” Jendy glared at her other half, almost impossibly vitriolic and green with envy.

“It’s what you gotta do when ya dance you moron.” Bendy snapped back, propping her upper half up on her elbows as she fought to regain her pristine state.

“And you didn’t tell me you’d met the epitome of perfection?! I thought there was _some_ family love here but evidently I was _wrong!”_

“Why would I tell you? I don’t have to tell you squat!” Bendy sat up fully, resting her elbows on her bent knees, uncaring of her uniforms skirt cutting into her flesh. Jendy hissed an unholy hiss.

“Ain’t no affection fer family. And you were the one rambling ‘bout doin creator _proud._ ”

“My Lord I would like to bring to your attention how it is noon and the word around is the dame is seen often around this time heading to a café.” An inky searcher remarked, as if she didn’t notice she was right in the middle of a budding sibling war. Jendy made a noise akin to a dying mouse and threw herself towards the edge to look down, inhuman eyes easily focusing on the slightest hint of blue.

“What has gotten into you?” Bendy finally asked the question everyone not willing to admit the blatant truth had been wanting to ask. Alice continued cataloguing those who’d witnessed the shameful display, referencing them with known gangs to see who had to get a warm, hollow point gift to the head before word spread.

“She’s _so pretty._ ” Jendy, catching sight of blue and red, instantly melted, the shine in her eyes warring between stars and hearts. She turned large, pleading eyes to the other. “I just wanna hold her hand _so damn bad._ ” She watched as the two were joined by the detective of all people, but that didn’t fully register, only the building desire to get closer, so she could hear whatever it was those full lips were saying. For many, it would be quite the sight to see the feared Don, on her knees, hiding halfway behind a building roofs lip, spying like a degenerate on a woman she’d hardly met. Those people would never learn that it would be the last thing they ever saw, but the odd image would be enough to ease the pain of instant death.

Bendy, not refuting the observation, took the liberty of getting them closer. It was funny to see Jendy acting so awkward. And it was a good way of learning if she’d actually been shamed beyond recognition in the face of her good friend. She pondered how she’d get friendly with the other judges now that she couldn’t go to Mugs anymore for subpoenas. Surprisingly, they were talking about things more related to the detectives store. The bailiff was animated in her enthusiasm, walking arm in arm with her sister alongside Porkrind. Gone was the judges stuffy robe, in place was a rich royal blue dress. No modern corset could dare hope to tame her curves, the one she wore clearly gave up any hope of that and was geared entirely for supporting. Jendy couldn’t recall a prettier sight than her judge in day clothing. Now she understood the one time she’d seen her fellow Don side-eyeing tailor shops when they’d done their bi-annual meetings.

She wondered if it would be too forward to find a hairpin for the gorgeous locks spilling free from the braid, down to her thighs.

“Got a nice shipment from m’ husband. Found a box ‘r three I fear needs a finer touch than I can give.” Porkrind spoke, cutting through Jendy’s daydreams of powder blue mingling with black silk or grey lace or white gold. The judge leaned forward, delicate nails tapping the latticed metal of the café table.

“Would you like us to visit after work, Auntie?” Jendy paused mid melt, staring into nothin as the title sank in. A pretty, gorgeous Doll of a dame, calling the hefty powerhouse well known for cracking skulls of would-be thieves and solving mysteries in ways that left cops horrified and impressed, Auntie.

“Aunt?!” Bendy’s hand snapped around her mouth, dragging her back and away from view hastily. Unseen by them, Porkrind got a murder-y type look in her glazing over eyes, like she was envisioning exactly how fast and when to open fire, and whether it would be worth it. Alice admired the steady, rational process from contemplation to planning. Back at the house, Sammy lamented to the Projectionist, having no clue what “blue songs” meant.

***

“Is it the genre? Does she want blues songs? Songs about the color blue?! What!” The musician bemoaned, scratching at what was left of her face as the Projectionist stared wordlessly at her, unsure how to answer.

***

“Goodness I hope Wally’s birds didn’t escape again.” Mugs remarked, looking around for any suspicious looking parrots. Her sister snort, waving away the waiter after Porkrind had pointed wordlessly at her order.

“Maybe she got her hands on the elusive stalker bird.”

“I thought her most recent goal was a bird of paradise.” Mugs pondered, trying to remember.

“Nevermind that, how many trials you have left for today?” Porkrind fought hard to bring the focus back, and the conversation smoothed out. So much so that even as they walked back, they didn’t notice how the man who stepped into their path hadn’t noticed them either. Not until he’d almost run down the judge. Only then did he shout at her, heedless of the fiery glare from the red-head who’d pulled her sister out and away from the man in time. Heedless further of the towering woman not glaring down at him so much as memorizing him as potential trouble. Said guardian _did_ take a second to lament not having a spare melon to tear open with her bare hands. Intimidation tactics were her bread and butter. He hopped into a car, still angrily and loudly cursing the judge out as he climbed into the waiting vehicle. And sure, the car that passed by could have gained their attention had a little old woman not caught it instead, drawing the trio to the courthouse so she could question who Porkrind was and how to get to her detective business.

Detective businesses were nice. But what was nicer, at least in the humble opinions of ink demons, was _violence._

Shouting at her judge like she was a _dog._ Getting huffy but not having the brass to say anything more than a paltry snap to ‘watch where she was going’ as if he owned the street. Not when their guardian was oh so near and astoundingly intimidating, show of strength or no. Talk of blind broads, mannerless as much as they were husbandless, heard by the shadows darker than daytime should have allowed. Shadows that followed them, hounding them like a beast of hell hunting simpering prey.

Well, the don was _more than glad to introduce them to the city._

When their cars steering wheel suddenly refused to obey their commands, when the doors collectively locked and sealed shut, handles coated in a thick ink making the handles too slippery to get and keep ahold of, the chatter died in place of panic. An argument could have been made that, the man may not have had the best days and would feel guilty later. That he’d try the next day to find the one he’d chewed out needlessly and apologize, not meaning disrespect but far too agitated at that moment to care. But one driven by less human emotions had no cares for such arguments. Her precious Doll had been disrespected, and more than that, he had made the Don _frown._ It wasn’t wise to act as if one owned the very streets themselves, not when the streets were in the territory of a _demon._

Creator never did like it when they frowned for anything other than the buildup to a joke. And to the Don, guiding the car to her side of town, into her territory, deep within it where all knew not to question the inky happenings, she had just the silly joke to tell. In the shade of the towering sky scrapers, an alley before them, a lone figure slid effortlessly from the shadows directly in the path of the car. The driver panicked, stomping on the gas in a wild bid for freedom as the rest began shouting in fear. There was a great, wet thud as the female went under.

Under, and then, with its own metallic cry, the car was lifted _over._ Up into the air, lifted by claws that gouged through the floor and the door panels like a hot knife through butter. It tilted, sending everyone slamming into the back. The trunk immediately began to sink, as if it had been sent into the drink and was taking on water. Above them, haloed by a writhing black void, a face appeared in the windshield. Horned, no eyes to see, but a great wide grin that should have been friendly, but was only _terrifying._ It grew more and more as they sank, as they screamed and kicked at windows and fought to escape.

The ink couldn’t find their fear quaint, but the souls within? Oh, the souls within _laughed_ as the doors were ripped open once the hood had slipped beneath waves of thick ink and the occupants were torn free. The screaming had started, and for them, it would never end. The last thing they saw in the world they once lived in was a face, inhuman, monstrous, _demonic._ The last to hear their pleas for mercy was something that knew nothing about such a silly thing like mercy.

And to Jendy, well, that was _funny_.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Also yes, the dopey don is indeed fawning hard over a judge. Her ability to save face is impressive as it is debatable. Gotta get that second hand embarrassment in there somehow! What does the judge think of it? Well it wasn't her turn for a chapter and won't be for a little while. And yes, her description was from Jendy's perspective. Who is Jendy? If you didn't read ambidexterous or even the BatiM crack shorts i made in the oneshot series, its the Ink Demon that wanders the studio. Bendy is the cutouts, hence why her features are far softer and nicer compared to Jendy.   
> I'm working on art, then it'll be back to writing. One shot next, then witchery happenings.


	3. Swine Stage

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Awful hard to marry someone when ya can't find em, aint it.

Morning routines for Porkrind had always been simple. Wake up, assess where she’d wound up conking out the night before, react accordingly. If it was the shop, she’d examine her clothes to be sure they looked presentable. If they were, she’d just open the shop, her internal clock waking her up exactly half an hour before she always opened shop. She blamed her husband for it, but found herself thankful in the times her clothing needed to be spot cleaned. She didn’t have the dainty fingers her little nieces had to get into the nooks and crannies of her clothing, but the power she put into her scrubbing more than made up for it. She liked to brag that there wasn’t a stain she couldn’t remove, and would gladly fight anyone who spoke otherwise.

She’d brush her teeth and find breakfast while preparing the shop for customers or shipments from her dear beau. Recently, after aquiring the box, it had taken to spitting out meals, which, she supposed technically were needed for the day, but it still felt odd and she wasn’t keen to eat what she didn’t know the origin of. She’d taken to thanking the box, but rejecting the offering. No, she wasn’t sure if the thing could hear her, but when one had an object of the devil in their house, they sure as shit didn’t disrespect it. Not unless they were stupid or truly thought the single church in Inkwell could protect them.

She didn’t, she’d seen the aftermath of the last sucker to think it would.

So polite she was! About as polite as a gruff old pig could be she supposed. Well, she looked in the mirror at her healthy flesh, her rosy cheeks, the patch over her eye, and the scars that dotted her face and shoulders from her occupation upon her and her man deciding to half settle. The hole in her ear from a lucky shot. One she’d returned tenfold and sure; she’d had to work a favor at the station to get out of before her darling nieces caught wind and got her out _but it was worth it_. 

She’d woken up in her office this time, the biggest reason she could look into the mirror on her desk. Behind her, the window spilled the colors of a dusty sunrise. It sucked being in a squat building right beside an apartment that killed any view she might have had of the sky, but the light was enough. Her suit was a bit rumpled, but the iron was a bitch to work with. Besides, every time she looked too crumpled; she’d inevitably find perfectly pressed clothes resting on her desk from her dear nieces. She knew her cuties were getting better at breaking and entering without alerting anyone but the sight of a successful drop made her chest swell with adoration ever time.

Freshening up swiftly, the shop took even less time to fully prepare and within the hour she was opening the doors and her day business began.

***

Nodding farewell to the customer, wishing them luck with their new purchase, Porkrind leaned back to look at the clock she had hidden under her desk. She had to move the nail-riddled baseball bat, idly noting how it had moved again. Not quite lunch, but her store was empty now, and it was as good a time as any she supposed. She needed to get some lunch, and perhaps meet up with her nieces. Shifting her weight to exit from behind her counter, the door interrupted her.

Slamming wildly open, a person she wouldn’t expect to see in her quaint little store in her life stumbled inside, face flushed a neon red in blotchy patches of distress. Ritzy spatz, snazzy pin-stripe suit perfectly pressed before, but now rumpled and wrinkled from restless sleep at what she bet was a desk. Bright blonde hair slicked back with enough gel to freeze a charging rhino in place—she didn’t blame him, his hair was curly enough nothing less would work. Stood before her was the entertainment of Inkwell. The very heart of the industry of theaters, plays, films, operas, and anything that appeared either on camera or on stage or radio.

Sally Stageplay in his full harried glory stormed up to the desk, pausing only to suck in great heaving breaths of oxygen in a desperate bid from his lungs to get the necessary air in before his always loud voice would take it away again. She took note of the rumpled gold vest, the crumpled dark blue sleeves, and the light blue suit jacket far from the sleek ice sheet like fabric it usually was. He was _always_ pristine and put together, lavishing in being able to spruce himself up and maintain a grand image for his beloved world of entertainment.

“Mrs. Porkrind! Oh thank the theaters of the world! I” He paused to suck in more air as Porkrinds sensitive ears flicked under the volume assaulting them. “I’ve need of your expertise!”

“I’m not a performer.” She answered swiftly, aware of his constant near stalking of what he perceived as talent. Those within Inkwell and familiar with its colorful cast knew he didn’t mean harm by it. Well aware he was a very passionate man only wanting to see the glorious talent people had in them shine truly on the stage or behind the mic. He’d follow people he claimed had that talent, begging them to give him but a few minutes of their time. She’d give him credit where credit was due, the talent he found to guide to Kahl’s radio sounded fantastic every single time. But Porkrind _hated_ the limelight. She scowled if even a single camera was pointed at her.

“Goodness no! You don’t have the grace for it. Storyteller? Possibly…” The rich talent scout paused, eyes glazing over with thought. Only to snap clear a moment later when he remembered just why he was in the tiny emporium. “No! No I need your detective skills!”

“That doesn’t open for a few hours. Right now I’m a storekeep.” Porkrind drawled, leaning her elbow on the counter top. Sally’s frazzled state grew somber, his shoulders slumping severely almost to the point of looking painful.

“Please. Please help me.” He looked at her with severe eyes, puffy and red and bruised from little sleep and several tears. Gone was the odd light that constantly followed the man around, illuminating him and those around him, leaving nothing but a somber, scared man clinging with chewed up nails to the counter.

And Porkrind, well, she had been looking so forward to getting a sandwich from that café.

She heaved a sigh, internally cursing her bleeding heart as she nodded and motioned for him to follow. She flipped the sign to closed and led him upstairs. He followed her with relief pouring from his harried, sallow features.

***

“You know my fiancée, right?” Sally started, slumped in the wooden chair. She’d tried to find comfortable chairs, but she didn’t exactly have infinite money, so she was certain his posture had to be murder on his spine.

“Can’t say I do.” She replied, leaning her elbows on her desk, taking every twitch and shake from his suddenly thin frame. She’d never seen the tall, confident man look anything other than neat and broad and sure of every step. It was almost unnerving.

“Oh, oh that’s just horrible, she’s…” He paused, all the words he wanted to use to describe his beloved fiancée stuttering and straining to get out first. “She’s just the sweetest Sheba, the most gorgeous gal, a rival to the stars in the sky, my most wonderful woman, and she’s been acting wrong!”

“What do you mean?” Porkrind shifted her weight, the chair creaking under her, none too pleased for her to be testing its strength.

“My beloved gal’s been staying out for hours after she usually comes home! She’s being secretive and won’t tell me why she’s stopped talking wedding plans to me! It was all we spoke about! But now she’s avoiding me! And oh don’t think I’ve hurt her, I swear on my life I haven’t! But she’s acting like I’ve said something wrong and she’s almost angry at me and won’t talk and-and—” He burst out into sobs, wailing obnoxiously. His fingers struggled to find the handkerchief in his coat pocket, nose releasing a hellish cacophony into the poor fabric upon its discovery. Porkrind winced, leaning away as his emotions eclipsed his wiry frame and sent his forehead cracking into the desk edge, abdomen tightening too fast for her to warn him or put the nearby stack of folders in between skull and wood. “And she’s not been back to the home in three days!” Sally got out in a heartbroken wail.

“And the cops ain’t helping? They got more soles on the ground, I’d be stunned if they couldn’t find her.” She wasn’t lying either, Inkwell hadn’t had a missing persons case in ten years. At least, not ones that lasted longer than thirty minutes.

“No! Those wretches just tell me she’s a grown woman! How I’m just a man and I might be trying to find a victim!” Sally almost shrieked, and Porkrind felt glad she didn’t have neighbors. Then she remembered the open window and strained to keep her face neutral.

“Must be one of the new ones on the force.”

“Two days I’ve tried to get their assistance and they’ve gone to just threatening me!” Sally slammed his hands on the desk, throwing his weight over it so he could get right into Porkrinds face. “Please detective, do I look like a man bent on finding a… oh, I can’t…” He stumbled, unable to say ‘abuse victim’ or other unsavory things. And she agreed wholeheartedly. Not once had she ever seen Sally truly push anyone, man or woman, when they outright refused. He was good at backing off, even if it was clear he didn’t want the world of stars to lack the newest shining glimmer in the cast gracing the world. And she’d certainly heard the rumor mill talk about his future marriage.

It was a touching tale of a woman finding him utterly endearing as he flounced about the auditorium and showered inspiration on downcast stars returning after their latest movies fell stale. She’d been the one to start courting him, at least that was the general consensus. But that was the gist of what Porkrind knew. There was no doubt in her mind if anyone was to raise their hand at that woman, it would be the last thing they’d do and Sally would be the one washing blood off his hands like it was mere paint.

Porkrind sat back, pondering the case laid out before her. Sally took her silence as permission to continue.

“I saw her last at the house, please, I’ll pay you whatever you want if you just find my future wife. I couldn’t bear it if she was stuck with some filthy gutter rats or hurt on the side of the road or…mercy. I’ll answer any questions you have, you have full permission to go backstage if needed.”

“Just tell me her movements from the last week.” Porkrind pulled the little notepad from her shirt pocket, staunchly ignoring the splotch of ink from the perpetually leaky pen.

***

The highrise wasn’t the highest in Inkwell, no, that title belonged to the resident tyrant of the land, Rumor. But it was bright and colorful and the neon bands chased the shadows of the alley away. She was here not because she knew it was the best place to start, but because this was where the others who knew her best would be. Constantly bustling with activity, but consistent in regards to the backstage workers, she wanted the best chance of learning more about how the woman moved about her day.

The door opened easily, unlocking for her now that she’d gotten permission from its master. An interesting feature of the building, it could be a fortress when needed, and no one but Sally knew how he’d done it. No one broke in, not without being found by the morning crews strung to the rafters in gruesome poses. The festering smell of wet stone and rotting garbage in cans faded, replaced by powerful smells only found in a hub of action.

From the sweat of hard-working set designers to the cold air drifting weakly through the vents in a dismal attempt to keep the backstage tolerable, carrying the smell of acrid cement under its icy tones. Her hefty frame didn’t so much as draw a single glance, no one caring about the newcomer seeing as she wouldn’t have been allowed entrance if she wasn’t supposed to be there. Shouts and yells rang out in an odd song like quality, a steady beat to each call, keeping pace and never coming when another was mid shout. Everyone moved with purpose, every step and motion not wasted with frivolousness. She caught a break in the flow around her and entered the fray.

People who recognized her in her tweed suit and her dusty old hat and gleaming black eyepatch humored her. Answering her questions about the dame of the hour while keeping pace and going about their business. Stories from the dame holding the boss’ heart so tightly the beau hanging on Devil’s arm could be naked in Sally’s office and Sally wouldn’t notice a thing if his wife was in the room. Or if he did, it would be to note how some strange lady was in his office. Or how she just about melted every time he entered the room, her eyes swimming with love and adoration and her ears perked to hear his every word.

They remarked quite a bit about how she’d gone around asking how much it’d cost a few of the men to bequeath their Sheba’s with rings and gowns and fancy gifts, her brow wrinkling with worry at some of the amounts. But that confused Porkrind. Especially when she took account of the wealth her future man had. She doubted severely—and everyone she asked wholeheartedly agreed—the woman wasn’t sighing wistfully at Sally’s wallet, just Sally. She wondered if the dame feared he would overspend on a gown for her or if she’d have to fear him holding the cost of the wedding over her head. The world had been experiencing a nasty slump a of late, but Inkwell had been lucky to avoid the worst of it. Perhaps she feared he’d hold back on wedding costs to the point she wouldn’t get the dream wedding all the women Porkrind knew drooled about.

She wouldn’t blame the woman if that was the case. Her own wedding had been wonderful, vows spoken amidst a temple trying its darndest to kill them, the angry god her husband had been fighting pausing briefly to witness their vows before trying to crush them with a wall. She’d still have married him if it hadn’t been that, but it was a magical memory and she cherished it. She easily understood why this woman would want something of equal value. But she refused to put words in the womans mouth or actions to her motions. Especially not when one of the workers grabbed her sleeve to get her attention, glancing around nervously.

“Hey, now don’t tell anyone I said this, but I seen his dame walkin the streets late at night. Runnin’ around town like she got a bunch of errands t’ run. I ain’t seen her recently, not fer a few days now, boss wasn’t makin’ that up. But I seen her, and she was with one of them boys in that new gang. None of us wanted t’ tell boss though, it’d break his poor heart it would. Knowing his gal is workin’ dirty.” He peered around, especially at the walls, sweat beading his brow. “But ‘ey, I been wrong before. We all been wrong before, we think she’s layin low somewhere. Getting’ the heat off her before wedding bells start a’ringin’. I don’t got more info than that, none of us do, we’d a told boss if we’d seen her these three days. Please, please find ‘er. Boss don’t deserve the heartbreak.”

Thanking them, she stepped back out, heading away from the building swiftly, a goal in mind.

Two alleyways, past three sleazy shadows falling silent at her presence as she blatantly ignored their hushed words any cop would have the cuffs out for. She didn’t care, it wasn’t her job to do their job, only what they either couldn’t do or didn’t have time to do. Swamped with keeping a crazy city afloat as two major families did their business within its streets. No one truly faulted them when cases slipped or robbers escaped. Though, the number had been dropping after the werewolf squad came onto the scene. Not to mention the resident ink demon’s unbelievable ability to brutally intercept getaway attempts.

She walked with a purpose, pausing only to whisper to a white furred rat eating a piece of steak behind a restaurant far above Porkrinds paygrade. One minute later, a car was screeching into place right before the alley, and into Inkwells Taxi service she went.

***

The woman behind the wheel was less smooth skinned conventional beau and more tanned and scarred hellion. Dark brown hair covering ears and flesh tied back with a scrappy ribbon once blue—likely a gift from the sanitation worker. Rough skin from an incident years ago peeking from under the stained cream collar of the blouse Porkrind swore was the only the woman owned. Arms thick with hairs and wiry muscle ending in sturdy hands she’d seen bend cold steel. The woman stuck her head out of the window to release a hearty puff of cigar smoke before sticking her head back in and putting the stump out in the ash tray.

“Vat can I do for you?” Her voice, thick with a foreign, strong accent, always made for fun listening. Porkrind closed the door once she was fully into the custom ride, and tapped her wallet. It was going to hurt, but she’d just keep the tab in mind when payment came up.

“Got a gal I want to whisk away to her fairytale prince. Problem is I don’t know where she is outside of the castle.”

“Oh!” A shoe on its last legs stomped onto the gas and before Porkrind knew it the streets were blazing by. No one could outdo the driver in maneuvering the streets. She knew, because she’d seen Werner outright outrun the cops on a few occasions. With its custom engine built by the mad genius who owned the scrapyard and lived there when she wasn’t ferrying souls around Inkwell like a deranged speed demon. Porkrind shuddered to think of the other speed demon she knew meeting up with Werner and learning from the taxi driver. So far, she and the others in the know had kept that from being a thing but by the stars in the sky did she fear the day it happened.

“I know of zis princess! Run afoul of some…business! I hope you do not mind entering ze den of sin.”

The car swerved around “slow peasants”, tires squealing under the weight of the beefed up car as it careened through streets. Porkrind swore she caught glimpses of cops on the sidewalks only shaking their heads and keeping people from walking onto the street until the mouse loving taxi driver had passed. A wise decision at this point really. If they weren’t going fast enough to leave Porkrind firmly embedded in the backseat, she’d love to take in the sights of the city from the view of a car. It was a rare treat, but when someone needed to be found quickly, no one could do it better than Werner.

No one had access to the rats Inkwell’s streets harbored. Another reason there were simply no missing persons cases in Inkwell. It was real hard to kidnap a person without a rat seeing, and when the cops had the funds to grease Werner’s palms or when her file suddenly went splotchy with illegible ink, well, the victim didn’t stay in the perps hands for long. Werner knew were every single soul in Inkwell was, saw all, and her odd friendship with the sanitation worker Goopy was the stuff of unholy legend. If they ever chose to go into the detective business, Porkrind would have to close that side of her shop. The rat of Inkwell turned taxi of Inkwell but sometimes scrap fiend of Inkwell and the freaky blue mess of instability would have her out of work in short order.

The car squealed to a halt outside the last place Porkrind ever wanted to go. It hurt her wallet to deliver the bills onto the sticky palm, but it was worth it. Few knew or even wanted to interact with Werner, and fewer still were graced with her nod of approval. Had Porkrind made an enemy of the woman she’d lose the fastest means of finding runaways trying to lay low from stuffy parents or vengeful spouses or any manner of loons. Most who tried the secondary service the mousy informant had never got so much as a whiff of care. To all but a few in Inkwell, Werner was merely the best taxi to take. Porkrind was lucky to be one of them, and though it hurt to be lighter, especially when rent was coming up, it wasn’t an option to skimp. Werner gleefully nodded, her thick tail snapping to wrap around Porkrinds wrist.

“I am in a good mood. The little princess has admirers who are not so fairytale. My street ears tell me she is…laying low? Yes.”

The tail released her, popping the handle instead to let her out. Of course Werner knew more, but if she cared to remember or convey what she knew, Porkrind wouldn’t ever know. Still, what had been given was more than enough and she hoped the tip didn’t have to be larger next time. Stepping from the vehicle and getting out of burning rubber range, she looked up at her least favorite place outside the outskirts.

***

A cave spat the sounds of the car and the noises within the building too loud for the walls to contain back at her. The building within the depths sat aglow in a sea of gold and red and luxury. Stories said the owner inside had given the reigns of Hell back to its original owners to run the place instead. It still sat overlooking a fierce drop that was unreachable unless one ignored the blatant fencing and warning signs, but the drop itself needed no warnings. Not when echoes of cruel laughter filtered up from the depths when the din of the casino dropped lower. No building was truly close to it, the closest being about a block back, but they were certainly closer than before. Of course they were owned by Rumor, but Porkrind didn’t want to open that can of hellish bees, so she stuffed the observation away.

Glitzed out in luxury, it was hard not to feel out of place, but she supposed that was what the designers had been going for. A lure for the poor saps who saw what wealth could net them. Porkrind hated it, not because she hated gambling, but because being a neutral party meant she had to tread on glass within. She dearly hoped the other Don wasn’t going to think she was picking sides finally, not when her store was so close to the border between them.

Stalling for time, she observed the pristine red carpet, the perfect oasis where droves of resort guests played gleefully in cool waters. No matter the state of the world outside, Hell was always the perfect temperature to take a soak in the pools artfully constructed and filled with water literally only Hell knew the source of. The fancy trees, the vaguely gaudy dice leading up to the entrance, the tower looming off to the side of the glamorous casino. Much like the fearsome beast of Hell hovering close to its prized possession, its betrothed.

Standing in the heat made her feel like she was laying on a cast iron and frying herself to a pleasant crispiness, and as she wasn’t keen to finding herself on the store shelves to be devoured with eggs and toast, she strode in. She’d face whatever she had to, even if she was going to hate every second.

***

The second she stepped in, she wanted to walk right back out and get her nieces to do this part. It was pleasantly cool, but the building still stank of heady adrenaline and endorphins and despair. Off to her right, the race track. Off to her left, the dealer tables. The stage was still quite the eye-catching piece of work, and the bar was just as humbling to one who constantly marveled at the sheer amount of liquor in one place. The gorgeous woodwork, carvings that she swore any museum would drool to have, easily older than Inkwell appearing to dance along the unnatural wood. Creamy tile floors, marble she’d guess, or porcelain perhaps, she couldn’t tell. Rich red carpets to cushion drunkards who toppled off their seats. And the ceilings, oh she had no doubt the domed ceilings were in clear comparison to some of the cathedrals she’d seen on her adventures. Stained glass so wonderous in its intricacy, it would take her breath away if the smoking section hadn’t already taken care of that.

She couldn’t back out now though, it would take time to get to her nieces, and she knew the cutest judge in the courts had a hearing to preside over, numerous ones actually. She’d been lucky to not get assigned a major trial, likely the courts way of thanking her for trying a mafia don known to make people disappear. So there wasn’t any chance they’d be able to help out immediately, and if Werner knew the woman was hiding here, she didn’t want to lose that. So she handed her coat over to the skeleton as it requested, and began meandering.

She found herself at the bar, sitting down on one of the stools at the bar top and asking for the least offensive cider she could find. Martini looked at her, suspicious of her presence. No, amused. Of course.

She didn’t speak to the bartender, and the bartender didn’t ask anything, sliding her some soda water instead, something she was grateful for. She scanned the booths casually, as if looking for someone she was supposed to meet. But her eyesight wasn’t the best, even in perfect conditions. Hence, her other reason for approaching the talent headquarters. If the woman spent her time in that building, that was what she’d smell like. So when her poor snout recovered from the hellish acrid smoke, she’d start sniffing around for that smell. She had a picture of the woman—decorated with several hearts and proclamations of adoration courtesy of a husband-to-be—but with her eyes, it would only be useful to solidify that the scent belonged to the right person.

Porkrind couldn’t stay long, not if she didn’t want to attract attention. She could certainly go places cops couldn’t, but that didn’t mean the higher ups would appreciate her presence. Quickly, she crunched her shoulders in as if she was stretching a sore muscle out. Her pocket wrinkled, giving her a clean view of the photo.Soft, dark hair cut in a bob, bangs hovering over thin brows, big warm eyes peering out through long lashes. And a thin frame, the gown hanging off her body tastefully. The glance wasn’t long, and yet somehow, when she looked back up, she was no longer alone. The heat pouring off the equally powerfully muscled woman made her skin prickle. She tilted her head just enough to send a friendly glance Wheezy’s way.

At least it was one of the better ones she supposed, it could have been sugar rush personified Chips, or soul crushing creepy Chimes. Wheezy held her hand out and the hearty slap their palms made as Porkrind clapped her hand to the others felt just as satisfying as the ensuing mini grapple. When Wheezy’s bones began to creak, the two let up. Wheezy returned to her casual stance at Porkrinds side, looking out at the people ignoring them entirely.

“What brings you here?” The fiery woman asked, elbows taking her weight on the counter. Porkrind rolled her shoulders again, exposing the photo again. Wheezy hummed, coal-fire eyes returning to the sea of souls around them. “She owe you or something?”

“No, pulled a runner on her man.”

“Another one?” It was awful polite of the smoky woman to keep her acrid smell down, actively reducing her temperature instead of letting the hellfire inside her veins send the horrid scent of tobacco at Porkrinds poor nose.

“I don’t think so, word around is they’re close enough to rival a romance novel in cheesiness. He thinks she’s in trouble.” It didn’t hurt to talk to Wheezy, especially when the very presence of the lounge worker/bouncer kept a hearty ‘do not approach’ sign above their tiny spot at the bar. There was a blatant line the people around them weren’t crossing as they walked past. Ignoring them, yes, but outright forgetting they were there? Not a chance, folks in the casino were too smart for that.

“Think I seen someone like that by Pirouette. He’s mentioned taking pity on a weak little thing. Just gotta ask you get done right quick and in a hurry. Don’t want to attract attention you know?” Porkrind nodded, giving the thick forearm beside hers a solid two pats before hefting herself back to her feet and turning to Martini. He shook his head as Wheezy beat her to it, waving her off. She’d have to arm wrestle Wheezy later then for thanks. She’d pen it into her schedule when she got the chance.

As she approached the tables, she kept in mind the photo, specifically, certain pieces of shine she could use to pick out the needle in the hay stack. Course, the woman wasn’t wearing anything blatant, nothing overtly fancy, but she did have a hair pin that she wore ever since Sally got it for her, and that was what Porkrinds eyes strained to see through the glitz around her as her nose finally caught the scent towards the slightly more shaded roulette tables.

She caught sight of the resident pit boss of the roulette tables, a handsome man she’d seen plenty fan themselves over. He appeared to be watching her as he worked his table, something that gave her pause. Now, nothing said the pit bosses couldn’t run the tables, but it was rare that they did, not when they had so many duties to attend to in their sections. And that’s when she caught sight of the pin, glinting in the light, perched perfectly in slightly oily hair. She approached, suspicious but grateful she wouldn’t have to creep around the tables with her nose wiggling away trying to find someone in the sweat fields of anxious gamblers.

Sitting in the empty seat beside the slender woman, she put a few chips down on the table. No, she wasn’t sure when she’d gotten the chips, just that her pocket now had a few of them. Anything to get the guests back to comfortable gambling levels she supposed. That or Queen found it funny to watch her flop out of her element.

It was probably the latter now that Porkrind thought about it.

“Oh, hello!”

Chatty. A chatty gambler, the poor woman. Porkrind nodded politely, noting those in the tables around her carefully.

“Do you play roulette often?” She didn’t know what she was doing. Porkrind realized the exact second she saw the woman’s bet. Half on red. She nodded again, watching in mute horror as the wheel hit red, and the woman idly shifted her pathetic winning over to black.

“Prefer it over the dice games.” Porkrind spoke, keeping her voice light and low, mindful of people around her. The woman too, kept her voice lower, but the relief that poured from the woman was palpable now. She’d likely tried to talk to others before, only to be rebuffed or ignored.

“Oh, oh goodness I’m quite terrible at all of them really. But the dealers here are all so nice! I’ve kept a nice little pile so far!” Porkrind wondered if her blatant glance at the pathetic pile spoke louder than she’d intended it to. The woman drooped a bit.

“Nothin’ wrong with experimenting.” Porkrind soothed. “Long as you got the cash to burn along with it.”

The woman cheered a bit, cheeks flushing with weak color as stress lines became evident on her face. She glanced down at her hand, then over at Porkrinds, specifically focusing on the ring finger where the simple band sat. Her own fingers rubbed at the tiny band on her own finger, likely a placeholder if she read Sally right.

“Right, I…”

“Got a thing yer gambling for?” Porkrind asked, casual and easy, watching her shift her winnings over to red again, she got the feeling Pirouette was being nice to the poor woman based on his cool demeanor.

“Yes! Or, no, no I was working for it, but…” There it was, the glance at her ring again. Shoulders slumping further, Porkrind waited for the wheel to settle before pushing the chips back to the woman carefully.

“I’d be more than happy t’ hear you out away from the tables, it isn’t wise to gamble mindlessly.” Notably, the woman didn’t argue, she sheepishly nodded to the resident friendly stone-faced pit boss in thanks and let Porkrind guide her to the booths off to the side of the stage where the shadows were just a bit darker. The woman clearly didn’t want to be in a bright place, and Porkrind was more than happy to accommodate her. 

“That um, that’s a nice ring!” The woman pointed to Porkrinds finger, and Porkrind nodded.

“Husband made it fer me.” Porkrind let herself go into the shorter version of the story. How her husband had fought through a hoard of mole people, bested their king, became their ruler, and demanded enough gold to make a wedding band for her. She fondly recalled having to one up him by breaking a few curses on a sapphire and rescuing an Alpaca Empress to earn the right to the fabric later used to make his tuxedo. As she spun her tale as keenly as the spiders had spun her gown at the behest of her husband upon finding their lost treasure, the woman melt, growing from fond and adoring to depressed at the end. Finally, she slumped over and stared pitifully at the pile of chips before her.

“I’ve been working so hard to get the extra money so I can buy my fiancé the perfect band. It’s got his birth stone in it! Oh I want it so dearly! A-and I’m not saying I don’t earn plenty in my job, but I wanted to engrave our nicknames for one another.” Tears began to slide down her pale cheeks, and Porkrind really got a good look at how sullen and disheveled this woman really was. Her hair was in disarray, her outfit was clearly unwashed, and her cheeks were far less plump than in the photo.

“Were you trying to gamble for it?” Porkrind asked, her voice soothing and kind.

“No! No I was working honestly! Oh no offense meant, but I’d been finding odd jobs, and this fellow was so polite when he offered to give me work and the work was so simple! Just delivering quaint packages here or there, it was easy! I should have known! I should have…” She bit back a sob, and Porkrind hastily dug into her pant pocket for the handkerchief she always kept on hand. Interestingly, the dame made the same horrifying noises when blowing her nose that her future husband did. She briefly wondered if any tots they brought into the world would inherit that habit, and feared for the future but for a moment.

“Ey now, deep breaths, easy now, can’t fault yerself for what you couldn’t know. Come now, you ain’t Djimmi the great. No one worth their salt will hold mistakes like this against you. Nice and easy now, that’s right, big breaths…Not that big, holy shit.”

It was going to be a long interrogation, that much was painfully certain.

***

“I know he could buy that ring, I know all I’d have to do is ask and he’d shower me in the money I need, but it doesn’t feel right! Using his hard work to buy him a ring that’s supposed to be my promise of eternal love!” She was relaxed now, shoulders loose after the sob session that rendered the handkerchief unsalvageable. Porkrind figured it was as good a sign as any to stop washing the damn thing and just get a new one. She wouldn’t want the sopping mess back anyway.

“So I got a few jobs here or there with some of the local businesses. Easy little things I could do on the side of my work at the agency. It was wonderful! But I was starting to fear I’d die before I worked up the money at the rate I was going! So when a few nice gentlemen approached me with that easy offer I took it without much thought. I’m a bit impulsive unfortunately. Well that’s come back to bite me, because it’s a gang! I was delivering…unsavory items, for ruffians and vile bozos!”

Porkrind nodded, fingers laced together, weight on the table making it tilt in her direction. A tiny part of her mind watched the salt shaker slowly edge closer to her.

“Well of course when I found out I promptly tried to quit, but they claimed I couldn’t just walk off. They’re a surprisingly large group too! I got shot at a few times trying to get out of the warehouse district, but I managed.”

“Which group? Was it the Drewsteins?” Porkrind already knew the answer. Neither of the families would ever rely on random ditzes on the street to do their work. Devil had imps, and Jendy had the searchers or her upper echelon of lackeys.

“No, thank—um…” The future spouse of the talent tycoon paused, glancing around the less than holy settings. “Thank the stars for that. No, it’s a filthy little gang on the north side. They’ve got a scary operation going on, but I didn’t get to see much when delivering the packages.”

Porkrind leaned back, brows furrowed deeply. Talk of a gang big enough to have supply lines in either Families turf was damn near impossible to imagine. Most gangs were paltry, just rowdy teens looking for a sense of solidarity with others where blood relations failed. They’d leave a wave of petty crime in their wake, nothing that the cops couldn’t handle. Anything bigger and the families always stepped in, unhappy as any would be with some sorry bastards stomping on their grounds. The more the woman described of never seeing the same face twice, seeing people go in but not back out of the warehouse of their choice, it brought her pause.

Without speaking, she tapped the shadowed wall twice, waiting barely a few seconds before an imp was scampering up onto the table top, looking at her expectantly. She relayed only part of it to the thing before both her and the woman were swallowed in a wave of hellfire, and deposited in a place Porkrind had only ever been in three times.

Despite being in the same building, the office was vastly different. Thick, black carpet—best for hiding stains she supposed—that sucked all sound out of any footsteps or movement. Walls decorated sparsely, just enough to look like the decorator had been going for ‘office’ but stopped part way. Shelves with freaky trinkets—she hated the ones that twitched when looked at, those were the worst—and books looking older than dirt. Two heavy filing cabinets on the back wall, looking more like towering bouncers looming over the one in the center, slumped in the ultra-plush chair.

Wild curls spilling everywhere in thick locks, like it was Medusa’s hair if the dame had void tendrils instead of snakes. Grey skin shimmering with underlying hellfire. Black nails wickedly pointed and tapping a plain rhythm out on the dark oak desk. She wondered how expensive such a nice desk was, then decided it hurt her finances to even ponder. Peering at them through long, thin lashes, two wide and bright red irises, slit pupils needle thin as the silent beast took them in.

Almost immediately—and understandably—the woman began to hyperventilate. She’d landed in a chair next to Porkrind’s own chair, and she dug her nails into Porkrinds arm. It was by someone’s grace that the broad had chewed them down enough it didn’t so much as leave a mark, but the pressure hurt nonetheless. She fought to keep the wince off her features, desperate to maintain a neutral expression even if she knew that at that moment, she looked more irritated than anything. She didn’t speak, and when the woman started to babble out apologies, she put her own hand over the woman’s, getting a terrified scream for her efforts and scratches on her thick flesh.

“Zip it up.”

What a work of art it was to see a babbling broad fall silent faster than a perp in an interrogation room. But then, she wasn’t surprised, not when Devil’s voice held the weight of power no one else she knew had. Her ears were flicked downwards, something hard to tell with the sheer mass of hair covering Devils head, but Porkrind understood.

“What’s this I hear about imp scraps using my warehouses?” Deep and reverberating around the room, fantastic acoustics really, she hoped the builder had been paid right for such wonderful service. Before the gal could do more than stutter out weak half words, Porkrind squeezed her hand and spoke for her.

“Sounds like you’ve got an infestation. Not the fun kind either.” She meant the time herbalists had bunkered down in one of the warehouses to hold a bi-weekly garden meeting that doubled as a place of worship for numerous nature gods. No, those were nice folk. Weird, liked to wear fig-leaves and nothing else, but nice none the less. The bastards setting up shop currently? Not so much.

“The- they-um… I—”

“More than there should be too.” Porkrind spoke over the broad, coming impressively close to just stuffing the womans hairpin into her mouth to get her to shut up. Devil was already in a less than pleasant mood based on how slowly she blinked at the woman when she’d started talking. A predator well aware the prey was far too stunned to run. It was unnerving to every degree, but if she brought a corpse back to Sally he’d put the whole of Inkwell into a depression. Fella had that sort of power after all.

“Apparently.” The beast rumbled, leaning back in her chair to think. Any time the woman would shift, Porkrind would squeeze the hand in her hold tighter, her lips pursed tight. It took three minutes of tense silence for Devil to rock back forwards and begin tapping a rhythm on the desk with her nails. “The question is, what I want to do about this. Can’t just let an infestation like that sit, turns into a plague sooner rather than later. But I’m a busy boss, as I’m sure you know…” She paused, taking glee in watching the woman squirm and Porkrind narrow her eyes.

“Ha! Yes, who knows what we’d do without our dear tormentor performing as a stunning gargoyle!”

The woman shrieked, the scent of jasmine clogged Porkrind’s nose, and Porkrind tensed, ready to haul the woman up and bail out of the line of fire. Queen flickered into view, perched on the desk before the one who’d put a ring on her finger. The heat pouring from Devil dropped instantly, her pupils widening slightly as something Porkrind didn’t care to ponder over flickered within that orange gaze. The dame of the Devil sat right before her, heels pressing into the chairs cushions to either side of the beasts legs. Wiry arms formed a cage the other willingly put herself in.

“You’d fall apart and we know it.” Devil hissed lovingly, coiling her talon like claws into thick thighs. Queen hummed, a glint of malicious amusement burning in acidic green.

“Okay well, good luck with that, I’m just—” Porkrind stood, hauling the woman up as well and starting to back up to where she knew the door to be.

The woman felt something slither behind her, and the next Porkrind knew she had a woman for a hat, shrieking so obnoxiously she swore the entire casino fell silent from the sheer power.

“That’s hardly polite, taking one of our patrons like that? Dropping such horrible news without offering solutions! Dear detective, I’d thought you better!” Queen twisted, peering past her snow-white hair at the detective. Her words were met with Porkrinds empty stare and Devil’s growing grin.

“I ain’t getting paid enough for that sort of mess.” Porkrind replied, wishing her dear nieces luck in their future without her. As if reading her mind, Devil cackled, standing upright, taking advantage of the slit in Queen’s gown to press close and look over the shorter woman’s head at them.

“You think I’d let myself be indebted to you? Ha! No, but did you forget the significance of that one staying here? What do you think would happen if she left before the infestation was taken care of?” Porkrind’s shoulders hiked up in frustration, she knew damn well the reason Sally’s squeeze was cowering in a den of sin. And it sure wasn’t because she’d suddenly acquired a taste for gambling and boozing up.

“It’s your warehouse, that’s a you problem. I got ways of getting goods out of places discreetly.” The detective replied, ignoring the hissing laughter from imps behind her. She’d seen them utterly disgraced before, which made it vastly easier to bring the desire to stomp them into paste and out of her way if needed up and ready for action. A rumble, the beast was becoming amused, likely feeding off the grin from her spouse. “Or get the dock master in on it, She’ll probably do pest control like that fer free.”

“Doesn’t matter if I can’t find the source. Don’t think you won’t get something out of this either. Find the source, report back, and, oh what was that dress your dear niece wanted? Or perhaps that cleaning kit the other ones been eyeing?”

Porkrind glowered, displeased with how an immortal entity was sending a very mortal pig into the lions den despite it not being in Porkrinds job description.

“I’m tellin’ ‘em yer shitty again.” The detective grumbled, already knowing she couldn’t exactly afford the birthday gifts she’d been meaning to get the girls. Sometimes she hated her weaknesses, really she did. Devil’s shoulders shook, her thin lips stretched into a wicked grin. Queen too, looked plain amused at Porkrinds blatant displeasure.

Sadists.

“We’ll keep that one _nice and safe._ ” The weight she’d gotten used to vanished from her shoulders and neck, and before she could protest she was out in front of her store, the smell of hellfire thick on her flesh.

***

Porkrind hated the docks. Hated the thick ocean smell. Hated the unpleasant sting of salt any time she got too close to the waters edge. She felt like salted ham every time she came back from the place, and no amount of glee in seeing the dock master ranting vile insults at a ships captain could mitigate her displeasure.

Sure, she didn’t truly hate it that much, the bustle fun to watch from a bench, but she wasn’t in the best of moods. So much of a sour mood she was in, she didn’t care to let the older woman finish her rant at a captain who’d decided to ignore her warnings about the ocean not being good to sail in that day and coming back with a busted ship, mucking up her nice, neat harbor.

“BRINEYBEARD.” The detectives powerful lungs compressed the yell so perfectly it not only eclipsed the dock masters yells, it stomped them out and called the remains pathetic. Instantly the black haired, broad shouldered, thick armed woman snapped her mouth shut, turning on her peg leg to greet the approaching pork of ire head on.

“If it ain’t me third favorite!” The woman perked up, then she turned her head back to the man, hissed a frankly vile vow to reduce his chances of reproducing to zero if he pulled that stunt again, and moved to meet the detective halfway. “What brings ye t’ me humble abode?” She said, pleasant now that she was in the presence of someone she didn’t hate.

“You let pests into one of Hell’s warehouses and I’ve been blackmailed into cleaning house.”

“Eh? An’ did ye tell em I’ve got cannons fer that? Or is it a symptom of ye moseyin’ in that building what took me men a hearty soul o’ time t’ clean after tha’ inky scoundrel hiked ‘er skirts up an’ flounced off! Don’ think I didn’t know ye scrapped ‘round in one o’ me other warehouses either!” Brineybeard, perceptive despite how others saw the salty woman, caught the glint in Porkrind’s eyes, the denial the detective was going to throw out not because she thought it would work, but because it was fun.

“They’re just bein’ lazy is all. But really, you got any idea how a massive gang could hide under your nose so long?” A point of curiosity really. Brineybeard was top notch in guarding her warehouses, better than any dog the junkyards had. The ink group had been lucky in that they’d only been there during the night, and only for a few hours. That, and Brineybeard had to wait for permission to lay waste to intruders. She had a nasty habit of blowing infested buildings into mere wisps on the breeze and just rebuilding it within a few days, her dock workers highly dedicated and capable of such impressive feats. But if the owner of what was inside said no, she’d have to wait for the green flag to wave for her to open a can of hell on pests ruining her docks security record.

Which Porkrind was sure what truly irked the dock master, she wouldn’t be surprised if Brineybeards blow up at the captain wouldn’t have been as vitriolic if the inky group hadn’t sullied her security. Not that either Don actually held her to blame the scant few times it’d happened.

“Been a bout ‘o activity recently it ‘as. Somethin’s fishier than that sea sanctuary lad’s sweat I tell ye. Feel it in me beard!”

“You don’t have a beard.”

“Sure I do! Got it in th’ name! Now if ye be needin some assistance, don’t hesitate t’ ask ol’ Brineybeard.”

Porkrind rocked to one side, putting a finger under her chin in thought.

“Actually, there is one thing I’d like, if you keep that sort of thing on hand.”

***

Blueprints were Porkrind’s least favorite thing. Mostly because her poor sight hindered her ability to spot finer details. And once again, she pondered calling her nieces. But the day was getting on, and they’d likely be on their way home by now. She’d been at it for a good two hours now, the headache whispering ‘just call them, what’s the worst that could happen? The eyes put down their plans to commit mutiny?’ into her brain. Staunchly though, she ignored it. It had only taken so long because she’d only gotten half of a description. There were four buildings on that side, which meant a stake out, which meant no comfy bed that night.

Brineybeard entered the room, carrying with her something that smelled purely divine and cut through the irritation instantly. She held a dish up, the source of the piece of heaven that had descended into the tiny room of hell and papers.

“Right lovely niece o’ yers stopped by. Told me t’ deliver this t’ ye. An let me tell ye ‘ow keen I am t’ know’n how ye got th’ luck o’ the world t’ know someone what know how to cook so fine? Got accosted by me crew I did! Almost didn’t make it!” The dish clicked onto the table, lid rattling at the jostling motion. Porkrind didn’t bother to keep the utterly fond smile off her tired face. She plucked the lid off, swallowing excess saliva down as the scent of her favorite meal coiled around her snout and filled the room with a pleasant rosemary aroma.

“Did you tell them to keep away from the docks for now? I don’t need to be worrying about the bastards making me slog through blueprints getting ahold of them.”

“No, but there was just one, tiny thing she were, blue as the sky.” Porkrind made a note to call them later. She didn’t bother correcting Brineybeard, it was long decided that the more people who thought the two traveled apart, the better. The little note on the side taped to the smooth porcelain dish, with her name and a cute heart drawing, made her chest swell with affection and a renewed drive to find the source. Their walk home was close to the docks, and the very idea of either cute gal being so close to a group willing to take advantage of an innocent woman made her blood boil.

“Thank you, I hope you don’t mind me prowling around for a few nights.”

Brineybeard shook her head, showing the detective just how useful it was to have friends in important places. 

“Aye, but I may start pesterin’ ye fer a morsel ‘r two.”

“I’ll ask her to bake a few cakes as thanks.” Porkrind huffed good naturedly at the bright grin sent her way, and then she was left alone with a delicious meal and the knowledge she’d at least be staking out on a full belly.

***

Stake-outs. The thing pretty much every single last person in any level of law enforcement or detective work hated. She didn’t get how stalkers could do it. How they could sit for hours, doing nothing but look at a building on the off chance their target didn’t just like using the back entrance. She had four buildings to look at. None of them were doing anything interesting and she feared her brain was going to start leaking out her ears. But she couldn’t just walk up to each one and knock—she was tempted though, _oh was she tempted._

And sure, she could just go to the cops and get them in on this. But she wanted more. She had to know which building, and have proof. The cops in Inkwell _hated_ doing raids. Especially into unknown territory. But if the fallen angel sitting her curly-haired ass in Hell’s throne thought she wasn’t going to just send a merry little letter to the force once she knew all the details, feathers had lost more than just her mercy on impact.

The good news was she’d thus far ruled out one of the buildings. The bad news was there were still three left, and she swore she’d dozed off a couple times. The worse news was that the sun was rising now, and if there was one thing the world didn’t need, it was a very cranky pig detective. So, with nothing going on, she figured she’d let fate decide her luck, closed her eyes, and sat back in the chair she’d been in since midnight, in an upper room of one of the tallest warehouses.

She woke to the scent of cinnamon, and a note on her forehead. To her right, on the table, was a new set of clothes and a still steaming plate of cinnamon buns. Before her, one of the warehouses had turned on its lights.

If she hadn’t been staring at them so long, she’d likely not have noticed the difference, not with the sunlight shining through all fours windows in a way that just about hid the extra halogen lighting. But she had been, and because of that, the plate she didn’t even realize she’d almost decimated within the span of two minutes dropped. She flung herself to her window, staring hard at the building while muttering thanks to any gods or goddesses of fate and fortune that could hear her. Then, she hastily turned on her heel and went for the blueprints she’d carried with her.

The note on her head, that had fluttered off at her swift action, caught her attention when she stepped on it. Pausing, she read it while pulling the correct blueprint out.

_Officers graciously await a flashy start, will bake for precinct, please ask for requests, thank you!_

Artful swirls and pristine lines, her blue niece then. She bet the clothing was from her cute red niece, and she resolved to pen a letter to her husband for him to find something special for them.

In a fresh suit—she didn’t recall owning a dark red shirt but it worked and felt nice on her skin—and with a full belly, she scoured the pages. She needed to know how they were getting in and out, how there were so many, and how all through the night she’d never seen any signs of life. They clearly only used lights when the sun could hide it, but then why didn’t she see flashes of lanterns or candles? Where they just active during the day? Were they using a back door she flat out didn’t see on the blue prints at all?

That meant sitting and waiting for more hours, listening to the docks come to life around her, and watching in utter fascination as the target warehouse seamlessly blended in with the awakening houses around it. People wearing the scruffy shirts and patched pants of workers unwilling to waste money on new clothes when patches worked just fine filtered out and into the crowds filing through the dock. Entranced as she was, amazed at the way none of the workers reacted to new faces as they usually did, she still had enough attention to her ears to hear the door behind her open. Brineybeard, smelling thickly of the ocean and sweat, ambled in.

“That one.” Porkrind said without waiting for the question they both knew was her reason for the visit.

Brineybeard squint, brows furrowed.

“Aye? Are ye sure? None o’ me lads ‘ave said a thing ‘bout it. Nothin’ out the ordinary anyway.”

“I am, does that thing have a back door I’m not seeing?”

“No. Fer security measures, all entrances are on this and that side. Everythin’ else be a step ‘r two from a dip t’ Davey Jones.” The dock master said, gesturing to the south and east face, both sides Porkrind could see. Porkrind nodded. So either they’d made their own and no one had noticed or bothered to bring it up, or there was a witch. Perhaps a surplus of potions! Maybe a wish to a djinn? Porkrind hoped it wasn’t the latter. The idea of a building full of near invisible thugs made her skin crawl.

“I have to get into the closest one to them. This ones too far away.”

“If yer askin’ for th’ keys, I’ll have t’ say no for now. If ye’d be so kind as t’ wait for me t’ get me days work done that is. Best ye rest now, I’ll keep a watch out.”

If she’d been her younger self, new at the job and suspicious of everyone, she’d have agreed, and then stayed up out of fear she’d miss Brineybeard showing her true colors as a sorry wretch bought by coin and warning the group they’d been caught. Or perhaps the paranoia of being stabbed in the back would keep her eyes wide open and the bags under them slowly acquiring a zip code. But she wasn’t, she’d learned from those mistakes, and gladly accepted Brineybeards kindness. She knew the woman perfectly well enough to know no one got away with mucking up the dock’s stunning reputation as secure from miscreants and bubs.

Brineybeard would sooner leap out into the sea than let those misusing her buildings—and not paying for it, people paid a pretty penny to have exclusive buildings after all—get away with it. Still, as Porkrind’s eyes grew heavy again, she observed the building, watching as more and more walked away, as nervous birds walked up to what she supposed were guards who constantly rotated, acting like they were on break to those around them. As packages were dropped off and the frightened took flight, an impressive operation that took serious money. Of course they’d take one of the casino’s warehouses. Devil’s dame had high class taste, the goods in one building alone could buy a fifth of Inkwell. Everyone knew it, but none had been dumb enough to try petty theft on a place that usually featured things nightmares took notes on guarding them.

She’d ponder how they’d gotten past the security later, for now, each blink lasted twice as long as the last, and then she was asleep on the floor, content anywhere her tired body could rest.

***

As the sun dipped lower, Brineybeard walked in time with a few of her workers. Pausing at the doors to a warehouse, she waved one of the ones by her side in, shouting for them to lock up behind them and return the key after retrieving the item. Then, she strode away, powerful voice carrying through the air as she shouted for the ones still beside her to check doors and windows. It was a nightly routine to ensure everything was in its place for the night before she turned in and let the hectic docks rest peacefully. Her leaving workers behind was nothing new either, she did it all the time when customers wanted items from the house and couldn’t wait to just pick it up themselves.

So used to the scene those around her were, none bothered to pay attention to the fact that the door never reopened. That the worker didn’t stroll back out after some time with the item. Or how the lock made but the tiniest of clicks, locked and secure for the night.

***

Closer now, she had to be much more careful. No room for pressing her face to a window like a drooling brat looking at the latest toy on display. She had to watch for those on watch, but the dark shirt she wore and the darker still jacket Brineybeard had left in the place after stopping by with the usual imps and skeletons coming to collect stuff for the casino’s daily repairs. Careful she was, careful and quiet, so quiet.

Especially as her ears picked up the sound of movement.

In the same warehouse she was in.

She’d gone in alone. Evidently she was sharing space with wastes of oxygen, and they’d gotten in without a key or the door opening. If she hadn’t gotten creative in her observations and had been watching from the windows as she’d intended, they’d have seen her in the moonlight. Instead she hunkered down on the lumpiest palette she could find. She thought she was sitting on a bunch of chips but couldn’t be certain, not when any movement would alert the weasel making motions out the window at someone else she couldn’t see. But the woman would definitely see her in a matter of a few minutes, all she had to do was turn around, and Porkrind would have to start thinking on her feet, surrounded by several hostiles, and no back up.

She was starting to think even dragging one of the officers would have been handy. Which, as the weasel was turning, satisfied with a job well done, she remembered the tiny flare gun she always had on her, and the note. She wondered if a flare to the face would be enough to alert the rest, or if she’d have time. Though, as their eyes met, she knew she wouldn’t, not when the weasels jaw dropped and her eyes went wide.

***

“Goodness, if you don’t drink your tea soon, it’ll go cold, sister!”

“Yeah, but ice tea isn’t so bad.”

“If you wanted iced tea I wish you’d told me.”

Metal ground to reduce the shine, a barrel unshakingly aimed, a finger hovering over the trigger, target in sight.

“We’ll have to say thank you to the dock master.” A dainty sip of steaming tea, moonlight streaming softly over the cozy little blanket set up by the one sitting with her legs tucked under her. Not useful in the current situation, but merry all the same to be having a wonderful night picnic.

“You have so much baking to do now, you’ll have to borrow Cagney’s kitchens.” No breath, no shiver or twitch or hitch. The target moved, and then, two sharp cracks, impossible to tell apart to those in the area. A bright giggle and the clink of a tea cup being set back on its artfully floral plate.

“That sounds delightful.”

“You say that because you don’t have to dust afterwards!”

***

The weasel’s brains splattered quite impressively. Porkrind broke out into cold sweat, her adrenaline spiking as shrieks of ‘sniper!’ ‘is it the coppers?’ rose from below and around her. She didn’t waste time, taking aim at the broken window and letting out a shot before throwing the gun at the nearest goon. Her next goal was easier still, she launched from the palette, turning to take aim at the ropes holding it in place, three cracks, a groan, and there was a lot more to be scared of as the heavy stack descended, unsupported now. She considered it revenge for making her risk her life.

Sliding, heels unable to find purchase on the slick upper floor, she smashed hard into the poor bastard who’d just ascended the stairs. If he didn’t have a gun and had been aiming her way, she’d feel guilty for the multiple cracks from frail little bird bones upon their impact with the wall. Instead she snatched it out of his hands, opening fire at the legs of incoming support, she needed to get to the side entrance before it became impossible or before they surrounded her. Gunfire erupted from below, echoing her own assault. She dove, shoulder checking one and cracking the butt of the gun against the jaw of another.

Shouts and screams a symphony of chaos, heart pounding in her chest, Porkrind had to leap over the railing instead of into the tiny room leading to the side entrance. They’d shot out the handle in their initial spray. The impact of her landing threw the closet snake off, giving her time to come up from her bent position and break their jaw in one swift punch. Using the writhing body to knock three more off their feet, she rolled to avoid a wave of bullets, using the box to her left for shelter. Ears ringing, pulse rocketing, chest heaving, she cared little to stop the grin on her face from growing.

Following the line of boxes, breaking jaws and cracking bones when people appeared to stop her or get in her way from the open rows at her right, she pressed on, gunning for the door. In the middle of diving low to avoid a bears monstrously heavy swing, she failed to notice the break in the floor before she could stop. A squeal broke out from her throat as the ground disappeared under her and she began to fall, the bear falling as well, having been reaching for her at the time. She landed on her side, grunting on impact, but the bear roared, and blood sprayed onto her face. Already half blind by nature, blinder still by the darkness around her, the tunnel she’d fallen into was blinding in how light it was.

Perfect for her to see the sharp statue they’d evidently been moving sticking half out of the bears back. A pitchfork she supposed, it was hard to tell considering the tines had broken off inside the body.

“Eugh,” She grimaced, sliding quickly from the crate before those above realized where she’d gone. The good news was she'd found the source in intricate tunnels hidden beneath Inkwells' docks. How far they went, how intricate they were, she didn't care, she just needed to get out, she'd set up enough of an alarm for the cops to find and sort things out. Sprinting down the hall, she raced through the tunnels, throwing herself behind corners when others went rushing by, reacting to the mayhem but not knowing the source. She kept running into dead ends though, unable to find a way up and out, and she felt dread set in, a cold nervousness at having to backtrack without any means of blending in with the rest and likely getting shot.

A flash of white, the scent of jasmine.

‘ _I’m not fond of you ruining my little anniversary gift to my beloved darling, but the chaos you’ve caused **more** than makes up for it.’_

The detective breathlessly thanked every deity of fate that Devil’s spouse was what she was. Heels pounding on dusty floors, blood racing, she shot through the unfamiliar and intricate halls just as the odd crackle of fire hit her nose. Far behind her, the ground shook, and the ceilings too far for her to see collapsed, sealing the tunnels in a bid from the group. Porkrind ran on until she was led to a little hatch in the ceiling. It took a few hits, but soon enough she was emerging into the storm drains. One tight squeeze—several utterances and swears to stop being the taste tester for her creative niece, and she was out on her side of town. Drenched in sweat, grime, and blood, she stood in the cold night air, listening as the sounds of the full brunt of the police force descending on trigger fingers chased the usual peace away from the night.

In the morning, she’d be accosted by Sally. He’d have his fiancée at his side, and both would shower her in thanks. Free from the gang now that they’d all gotten swarmed by the cops, she’d have been escorted home and into the utterly relieved arms of her beloved man. They’d cry and cling to one another and apologize, then agree to thank the detective in any way they knew how, to include annoying hugs and snot on her shirt. Annoying, but the check that would cover three months rent easy and make up for what she lost to Werner? Less so.

Far less so.

For now, she ambled home, aching now that the rush of endorphins was no longer drowning out her screaming knees and bleeding feet and the three bullet wounds she’d gotten in her flight. Nothing serious, which was perfect because the moment she got back home and in the door, she collapsed onto the floor and fell asleep right there.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> Holy shit this was way longer than i thought it was going to be. Are these things getting too long? I think i might start trying to cut down, at least on this one. I'm so sorry if this length isn't pleasant but man did i want to paint more of Inkwell and its colorful cast. It took far too long too, but my inspiration comes from rereading my stuff, music, and having enough energy to write. Work has been killer recently so its been bleh. But enough griping and groaning! I'm at least having fun with a porky detective.   
> You'll take strongwoman porkrind from my cold dead hands i tell you. No one who thinks her or her male version couldn't break skulls open in one hand like a rotting melon is allowed in this house. When i get my DA active again i'm posting more of the gals. Who might be next? Who knows!


	4. Office ink

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Officer inky gal reporting for duty.

The flare went out, and the police force answered. It wasn’t often a group became large enough that they were all needed, even the ones who were off the clock. To say the least, the force was displeased. They _liked_ their reliable status in Inkwell. So, when that flare illuminated the warehouses, aimed at the warehouse already bursting with activity from the red light, three of the darkly dressed officers shattered low windows, lobbing vials inside. One was shot for her efforts, shouting rancid curses at the unseen assailant while diving down low. Another heard cursing from inside, the vial having hit a couple laying in wait, but when he shout the required identification that he was police, he was answered with a hail of gunfire.

The third was far less fortunate, but was close enough to a couple other officers to get dragged rapidly away and towards safety while blood poured from their throat wound. At the shouts, at the confirmation of officers down, a lone, short, black-haired cop shifted her weight back onto her low heels. Her hands were behind her back, fingers laced together, shoulders loose, black eyes bright and wide.

“What we got Chief?” She asked, her black uniform pristine, snow-grey skin gleaming under the moon and the light of the flare.

“A get together.” The chief responded tersely. Understandable really, his people were being shot at.

“A free for all?” The officer queried, watching her fellow officers descend on the building, a chameleon phasing out of clear view and sinking into the void within the building. More shouts of officers being hit rang between the storm of hot lead.

“No.” The chief’s jaw clenched, an eyebrow twitched, an officer shrieked her partners name as she was hit, demanding vengeance even as blood began to spill from her shattered teeth, the bullet having shredded through her cheek and jaw. “Bring me the boss, I want ‘em at my feet. But no eating anything until we have the leader.”

“Right.” The smaller officer nodded, and sauntered forward without a care in the world. A few more officers had thrown vials within the building, but that was becoming harder the more the crowd inside decided fighting back was the only option. Black liquid pooled on the ground by the bay doors. Splatters of it dotted walls and covered crates in a shower of void. The officer stopped before the doors, and whistled.

Those seeking shelter inside watched in mute shock as, rising from the pool of black growing bigger by the minute, a cartoonish hand stretched white gloved fingers up and out. Another bubbled out, but the hand was under the bay door, and with a great heaving shriek, the bay door began to crumple under the force as it was steadily pressed upwards. A sharp crack, and the bay doors were set down, crushed, but perfect cover for officers to hide behind. Bullets sank into the liquid and didn’t come back out. Shouts calling for the water hoses burst from inside, but the officer only smiled wider.

***

A thug ran through the hallways of crates, huffing and puffing, not used to so much action. They’d been at the front, by one of the windows, when it all started. Whoever set off the flare was a goner when boss got ahold of them, but for now, the thug had to get a better vantage point. They hated being close to the roaches wearing blue, and found it far more preferable to be at a distance where their gun could be of better use. They kept an eye out for any hidden cops, knowing by the cries that the chameleon unit was spotted not too long ago.

Briefly, they wiped at their arm, grimacing at the dark liquid, unsure if it was blood from the copper smashing a window or their own when the initial firestorm hit. While they didn’t feel like they were hurt, adrenaline was a hell of a beast, and they knew better than to think it couldn’t be an injury. Until they had better light, they’d have to hold out on knowing.

Wiping their hand on a wall, they paused to catch their breath, shooting out the nearest window. Shifting, a flash of white caught their eye as they were going for more ammo stashed in their baggy pants pocket. Almost shrieking, the thug shot one of the lights high above as pie-cut eyes stared out at them from a pure white face. Wheezing, the thug cursed violently, trying to remember when that thing had appeared, or when the casino suddenly got shitty taste. The sheba of that beast in Hell usually had finer tastes, but it was always hard to tell with the wildcard ruling that hellish show. Angrily, they kicked out at it, loathing how it had made them jump.

The thing must have been made of dust or something because that single sharp impact shattered it. Scoffing, the thug continued on. Or at least, they tried. But the moment they turned, a soft noise, barely heard over the screams and shouts and gunfire, came behind them. They turned sharply, finger smashing onto the trigger of their weapon, slinging it out and around at the moron who’d snuck up on them.

And they watched the cutout shatter again.

Then the bay doors turned into crumpled shadows of themselves and shrieks began anew, this time, for the hoses. The thug, jaw slack at the sight of an inky hand snatch up two of their friends, snapping femurs like brittle sticks, slowly remembered that they were fairly close to one of the three hoses in the building. They turned, remembering having passed it on their way to the boss’s den, and ran smack into another cutout. This time they spat at it, furious at the trick and more high strung now that there was less shielding the gang from the outside. They shoved past it, running back the way they came, searching for the needed weapon against those hands.

***

Another gangster sprint out of the boss’s office, having taken the orders of the boss before the big guy locked everything down and bunkered. The boss, like them, were sure all it would take is their numbers outmatching the police’s own. They shout “Fire until the blue runs red!” at their crew, and raced to help barricade the back windows. Briefly, they spot their sister warehouse through the window, and grinned at the sight of blood splattered across the concrete outside that buildings windows.

As they sprint, a flash of white caught their eye, and they paused only briefly to take in the odd cutout now staring out at them. It had splatters of black on it, and its pie-cut eyes were blankly staring off ahead, not really looking at anything beyond the door to the boss’s office. They slowly edged closer, not sure when that odd thing got where it was, sure they’d never seen it before.

***

A youngster clutched their weapon to their chest, they’d cut the throat of a copper who’d been going through the window. Or they thought they’d cut the throat, they’d sort of slashed out in panic once the glass by them shattered, and after the copper vanished, they’d heaved a box to block the new entrance. They’d hunkered down now behind that box, sitting in a pool of what they hoped was just water, and not blood. It didn’t smell like blood, but the youngster wasn’t quite sure what it was, only that it was acrid and unpleasant. But they didn’t want to move from their spot, not until those with guns needed the melee crowd.

A shift behind them had them scampering forward with a wail of terror. Their scuffed shoes scrabbled in the liquid, struggling to give them enough purchase to throw themselves away from the noise. A white faced cutout stared out ahead sightlessly. The youngster wheezed.

“You weren’t there before.” They squeaked, panicked mind uncaring of how odd it was to speak to a mysterious cutout. Of course after a moment they slapped their cheek, muttering how dumb they must have looked to their higherups. It was probably just their memory acting up again, the warehouse was big after all, and it was easy to miss things.

Then the cutout blinked, the pie cut shifted until it was clear the eyes were focused on them, and it grinned _wider._

***

“I hear, with my little ears, a wonderful tune.” The black-haired officer spoke with a bright, merry grin. “A jaunty song, a merry melody! But not for you.” She continued, echoes of radios that once played the same few tunes in her mind playing. Far off, in a room build specifically to house a pipe organ, fingers masterfully began to dance across ivory and ebony keys. “No, your joy is about to be swept away, because what I hear,” She began to stride forward, the black liquid inside the building shifting, erupting into shapes of faceless souls, reaching out and grabbing limbs.

“What I hear for you, is a gospel of dismay.”

Three cutouts were shattered, and in their place burst hands, countless spindly arms with needle like fingers. Flesh tore under the assault, and three were dragged into the ink. The arms blocking the entrance crashed to the ground, spreading a wave of ink on impact. With the knowledge pried out of three sorry souls, ink dripped down through cracks, down further into tunnels, and began to spread shadowy wisps along brightly lit corridors.

As the officer strode forward, she whistled along with the piano heard by no one but herself. The ink spread like sunlight underwater, rippling and writhing forward in a horrid mass of shrieking laughter. Those caught by the ripples were left with broken and torn limbs. She walked by them easily, unhindered by their cowering forms.

Some tried running for the hoses, only to find the boxes utterly destroyed and the hoses gone. Those didn’t have time to despair, not when a void mass of ink arose from the shadows by the boxes and swept a wave of countless hands down at them, grins rippling over the inky flesh, glee oozing from the vile souls within.

Someone higher up took a shot at the officer who now walked into the building. Her head snapped back as their bullet found its mark, and briefly they thought to cheer.

One of the hands closest to the officer slowly wagged its index finger at them scoldingly. Her head shifted back down, and she locked eyes with the gangster. Not even a mark was left from the hit. But one was left on the shooter when the ripples that had been moving along the ceiling reached them. Arms swooped down, the man was dragged up, screaming but for a moment before being swallowed. Officers followed their own dancing copper. They dragged the broken gangsters and thugs from the area, determined to clear the place and end the firefight. All guns shifted to the black-haired officer, but the hail of fire did nothing. She fell into the ink, and a new warpath was cut through those who would never recover from the horror of watching a thing with far too many mouths and needle sharp fingers follow a small figure approaching them with a manic grin of her own.

***

The officer stared up at the doors barricading her from the inside. She knew, thanks to a lovely soul, that behind it was thick steel. Her little nose wrinkled as she eyed the smooth surface, she wasn’t one for brute forcing things. That was more her horrid twins thing, and she despised the thought of doing anything like that wench. But it would be a pain otherwise, and she wanted to have time to practice before that weekend. With a mournful sigh, she stepped away from the pool of ink growing from her shadow, and a hand swung out from below, and its heavy fist crashed into the wall beside the door.

Never let it be forgotten that impressive doors meant nothing when the walls were sorry brick.

She stepped in, and the ink listened to her fellow officers groan and wheeze and choke on their pain, on their agony from wounds received from rude little fellows. The person before her, half in the floor, going into the underground tunnels, shot at her with an adorable little pistol. She played her part so well; Henry would have loved it. She toppled backwards from the fire, giving out a surprised, choked scream. She supposed the bullets had a tinge of holy silver to them, and that would have hurt her more had the ink’s magic not eclipsed its demonic side a good ten years ago. Even so, she writhed until the hatch slammed shut, then, she melted.

The piano swelled, notes pouring into the air with malcontent.

***

The leader tried to run, the hatch slammed shut and, in their haste, they hardly noticed how the bright lights weren’t reaching as far in the underground as they normally did. Not until they shifted to go into the depths and escape, and ran smack into an inky wall. The whispers started then, starting off barely heard over the leader’s vicious attempts to break through or get around. Then, they changed, growing louder, now understood to be hissing, mocking phrases. Teases that could have been friendly if it hadn’t been for how vile they were. Then, they changed, muttering the things that prison was going to do, and then they were telling the leader to drop the gun.

They didn’t. They knew another hid in the ink, and they feared that thing vastly more than they did the one they’d taken down. But, they supposed the bullets worked on the copper, so it wasn’t a stretch to think it’d work on that one too.

“Gee, that was right dirty of ya!” The leader flailed, gun going off once more. They shrieked, their ears ringing, regret and pain and fear mixing in their mind. They turned to see their second in command, with half their face missing, and claw marks covering the rest of their body. They spoke peppy, but there was nothing alive in that lone eye, rolled back so only white could be seen. No hesitation, the gun went off again, this time into the forehead of the possessed. Their second in command didn’t so much as react to the bloomed hole in their head.

A wisp of shadow coiled, fingers lovingly teasing the leaders slacks, tugging coyly on the hem as more began to slide up the leaders frame. They cursed, searching for the one who was controlling it all. Had the bullets not worked?

“No.”

The officer looked at the gun casually, her face hovering by the barrel, confident. But there was a reason, what did she have to fear when a clawed hand was curled daintily over their own, keeping their fingers locked in place painfully tight against the metal. Her eyes shifted up from the weapon, slowly moving to lock with the leaders, and though her own expression remained playfully light, the shadows around them grew filthy, lethal grins, then the leader was falling into the ink, and they couldn’t think of anything else.

The piano fell silent, ending on a delicate note of triumph.

***

Officer Bendy whistled a tune, jauntily stepping through the remains of the fight. The casino probably wasn’t going to be that happy, but she knew a way to appease them a little, she just had to wait for the chief to give the orders for it. At the moment, they were raining a hellish fury of words down on the leader who cowered by her boss’s feet. She may have gone a bit overboard in the ink, but she couldn’t help it, not when the meaner souls fell to her side. She’d have to sort through the new souls later and find the officers who’d died covered in ink, find out whether they wanted to stay or not, and go from there. But that was easy, what wasn’t easy, was what came next.

The chief loudly called for a cleanup crew to start work, and she was the first to throw her hand in the air to volunteer. They didn’t have to clean up the blood or bodies, that was the investigators jobs, but they _did_ need to get the ink off whatever it had landed on. Luckily for them, Bendy was pristine in her handling of the ripples, and there wasn’t more than a thin film on parts of the floor, splatters here or there. Unluckily, only Jendy could call the ink back to herself, Bendy had never learned how to do that and the ink wasn’t exactly throwing answers her way.

So, to keep the casualties down, ink needed to be cleaned, returned to Bendy, and that meant volunteers from the force. Souls Bendy had sworn to never harm, which echoed into the ink. Sure, if an officer died on the ink they were devoured like any other soul, but the hold was tentative until they agreed to stay. As bloated as it was, the ink didn’t much care if a soul or three were peeled from it. Other officers who weren’t injured and had adrenaline still racing from the fight offered up their services, all in the force well aware of the caveat to their hardest hitter. Having an ink demon was nice until ink needed to be mopped up.

So there Bendy was, mop in hand, eagerly mopping into her shadow where the ink poured in, leaving nice, clean floors. Others scoured the walls, walking over to either dump the ink in a bucket or—when Bendy was close enough—into her shadow. The buckets too, found their way to her once full. It was methodical, tedious to some, but the fact that such a violent firefight only ended in four on the force meeting their end when it could have been higher, they’d take it. Especially as the ink began to spit out a few it hadn’t killed, only dragged in for temporary containment. They wondered how they’d fit all those inside their not so big jail. Easily two hundred sorry morons needed to be taken care of and processed.

One thing was for sure, the courts were going to _hate_ the force for a little while. So many to judge on top of the newly implemented civil small courts. The casino was going to be hissy with all the ruined storage. Coppers were displeased with the budding realization that there were tunnels that spanned far longer than any had ever thought. Some wondered how the sewer system hadn’t found the tunnels, others wondered how the things looked so ancient. Newer lighting, yes, but the whole of it was old brick. Some of it was slapped with white paint. The ones searching for remaining gang members ultimately called it off, too worried about getting lost.

The souls in Bendy whispered chokingly how they themselves hadn’t found an end, staying just in their areas of operation, just as worried about being lost as the officers were. She relayed it to them, despite knowing that plenty of those they had either being sent to hospitals or holding would likely have narked by now. It was just easier that way.

***

It would be three hours of cleaning to get everything clean enough an imp who’d wandered over to make sure the most important rule was being followed waved them off. The officers who stayed immediately shuffled home like zombies, tired and aching and wanting nothing more than sleep. Bendy didn’t really sleep, she’d long stopped trying to do that after the first few times she’d gotten lost in the ink from wandering deeper. She instead went back to the office, to her own personal office, and plopped down on the couch she’d brought in to begin the sorting process.

Some souls stayed, others found their vile selves thrown straight to the deepest depths where they’d hopefully melt to nothing but grumbling hatred. Others still were left to mix with the rest, the sea within the ink. Methodically, the rowdier souls shifted away from her side, going back toward’s Jendy’s side. Whether their energy would be used or not, Bendy didn’t care, she instead kept on that couch, eyes closed, hat over her face, and the sounds of the living outside her office keeping old fears at bay.

***

Now there wasn’t an entirely altruistic reason Bendy had helped with the cleanup. Yes it was her ink, yes she’d have to have been present to take in the ink once more. But techinically, she didn’t have to clean. When she’d used more energy than intended and the ink wasn’t going to spare anymore, she was fully allowed to flop like a starfish onto the concrete or tile or wood of whatever floor she was on and lay back while they mopped ink to her shadow. They’d done it a few times, but there was a problem there.

The air of the station in the early morning rapidly filled with a scent people could only describe as heavenly. A sweet mishmash of cinnamon, nutmeg, baked pastries, and fresh berries filtered through air ducts and under doors from the entrance. A rookie, fresh on the job, nudged one of the several baskets full of treats and goodies.

“What even are these?” He asked, not annoyed that his paperwork was covered by a basket of bearclaws, just curious.

“Courts got wind of the shootout, one of the judges is a baker to rival that Carnation broad. If we get hit by a rough time, she’ll send over baked goods to thank us.” The rookie opened his mouth to say how nice he thought that was, but a door clicking open interrupted them. The desk attendant motioned for the rookie to take his pick of the goods, going back to shuffling through the papers already filtering in.

“Said we were all allowed two.” The desk worker spoke louder than before, eyeing the grey white hand trying to stealthily steal the whole basket of snickerdoodles. A head of black hair, and two playfully narrowed eyes followed that hand up. The rookie fought to keep his face neutral.

“I helped clean-up, you know what that means.” She retort, stuffing one cookie into her mouth immediately after. The desk worker snort, pointedly watching her swipe two more from the basket and melt back into the shadows. The rookie stared at the empty spot, almost wishing seeing an actual ink demon could make him feel the terror it used to bring to his mind. But if _that_ was the demon? He wondered how scary the casino was after seeing the truth behind the inky cookie fiend.

“She’s scarier when ya don’t let her have her rewards.” The desk worker tossed out, well aware of what that look meant, it was all too common for rookies and visiting officers. Work was calling though, and so, the rookie found a massive stack of papers stuffed into his arms and a stern warning not to get biscotti on them. “Bring em to the Chief’s secretary. She’s the least likely to incur the judges wrath.” The desk worker said, and that was that, the rookies day was beginning with ink demon cookie fiends, delicious biscotti, and enough paper to make a forest spirit blush.

***

Officer Bendy didn’t work with partners. It wasn’t exactly that she hated working with others, it was more, no partner could actually keep up and be useful when the police were needed and Bendy was in the area. Far be it for Bendy to claim she was the best on the force. Strongest? Maybe, if they didn’t count that angel who handled the finances. Fastest? All dependent on the situation and availability of ink. Smartest? Even thinking she was smart usually got roaring laughter from her twin across the ocean of ink linking them together. But she could still do things no other officer could.

A woman screaming about a purse snatcher caught her attention, and she turned her focus to the thin boy sprinting away from a richly dressed woman. He ducked into the alley, and Bendy hummed. It didn’t take more than four seconds to get him stuck in a maze of alleys with her cutouts, her time made easier with how they were on Drewstein territory. Ink was _everywhere_ , even in the newspapers—something that had made the ruler of the Honeycomb Herald displeased to implement but was necessary none the less. The boy wound up trying to scrabble up one of the fire escapes, where he ran smack into her. She was nice, not even breaking a bone as she tried her best to emulate the look any of the judges could give and make the boy just give up.

Call it lazy, but none of the officers were in the mood for petty criminals to take up rooms they just didn’t have, not after that bust. The faster she got the kid to apologize and the lady to see it was just a scrawny little runt, the easier.

That isn’t what happened. Oh, the kid went limp, instantly realizing he was caught and knowing more than the morons in that warehouse not to tempt the things lurking in inky pools. But the lady must have been having a bad day or something, because she _wouldn’t stop ranting_. Screams of how poorly raised, how pathetic, yadda yadda, insult upon insult to the kid, demands for her to throw him to the wolf unit. She stared at the woman with the same blank stare her cutouts had, she didn’t _want_ to file anything like that. Not today.

“Ma’am, you’ll notice nothing is actually missing anymore, and the kid’s apologized. He ain’t even going to see the inside of a prison cell unless you’ve got a whole art gallery in there or something.”

“This is—”

“Full of makeup, and ten cool coins, kid’s terrible with picking targets.” Bendy wondered if having a partner for this part would make it worth having to listen to them whine about how she left them behind.

“This is why these streets are full of scoundrels now! You’re all useless! That thing committed a crime! He should be held accountable for that!”

“It’d cost more to take him to court in a taxi than he stole from you.”

“But how many more has he stolen from?” The boy, who’d been so silent, staring at his filthy shoes and stained, frayed pants, kept silent.

“This thin? Probably not many, look lady, keep yelling at me and I’m going to drag you to the precinct for public indecency.” She would never mourn the days of old, sitting in a tiny pool of ink amidst so many restless souls furious, only held at bay from her because she was the pristine model, the heart. But hearing this lady scoff and storm away _did_ make her regret losing the ability to just dump the screechy ones into ink pools and be done with it.

She linked arms with the kid forcefully, taking advantage of her shorter stature making it easier.

“Here’s what’s going to happen” she spoke to the now squirming kid. “You’re going to go to the court house, you’re going to request to be a gopher. What they’ll then do is use you to fetch meals for the workers inside who don’t have time to leave. You’ll get paid for it, more if you do it well, but definitely more than you’ve probably been getting.” She told him casually, heading right for the beacon of calm that was the lone building in all of Inkwell so warded and guarded from any potential threats it was a miracle Jendy had even been able to enter. He stared at her, debating whether she was lying or not, if she was just going to get him into the den of judges and leave him to his fate.

“What you _aren’t_ going to do is go running away to keep looting terrible targets.” She didn’t pause in her step, now half dragging the kid to the side door of the courthouse. The door reached out, feeling the badge on her chest with unseen magic, and opened easily for her. She stepped in with him, gave a glance around, and turned to face him fully, her face warping. It was impossible to change her body like Jendy could, but at the very least, the cutouts and her had found a workaround, and as her face went from pleasant to nightmare fuel, complete with the too wide grin many found uncomfortable, she felt thankful for it. “Because if you do, I’ll break your legs.” She didn’t so much as start to care about how he went pale as a sheet.

He was only released from her iron grip when he nodded hastily. The moment he was free, he bolt for the opening to the tiny alcove. She listened to him stumble over his words to one of the secretaries. Heard them take pity on him and softly settle his nerves, and walked back out. She’d only just started her patrols; it was good to know she wasn’t going to be bored at least.

***

Her route had changed just a tad. She’d claim it was to make sure a criminal was doing their service and obeying the word of a judge. But anyone who knew her knew that was patently false. She knew from the start the second Jendy agreed to her service that was final. The ink, the magic within, would allow for nothing less than fulfilment of the deal. It was never a question on whether Jendy would show up, just how much effort she’d actually put into it. Both sisters were perfectly adept at messing with wording and phrasing, ruining the outcome long before an agreement was out in the open. Jendy could easily have agreed to work for them and then done the bare minimum. She could make a mess of things, make the two inside regret ever agreeing to a second option. But she wouldn’t.

Which was the real reason Bendy went to witness her technical twin carefully arranging pots of bright flowers. She was far from clean, covered in splotches of flour and smears of dirt, clearly not holding back with whatever it was they asked of her. Bendy—like any sibling who had a strong distaste to their sibling would—savored _every moment._ Even when the other caught her appearance and squint, clearly wanting nothing more than to wing the pot right at her.

“Hello, officer, can I help you or are you just trying to see how long it’ll take that one to add more time to her service?” Bon Bon spoke from behind the counter of the flowershop portion. Bendy gave him a wide grin.

“Both actually! I wanted to savor that, and see if my order was in.”

“You missed the judge’s appearance. That’s the best time to come over.” Bon Bon replied, ignoring the very audible sound of nails digging into ceramic.

“She stopped by the precint earlier actually, brought the force some treats.”

“I swear, there’s only one other person who can match that one’s baking energy and it’s—the one who better not be going for the back!”

“She said order!” Cagney called back, taking advantage of a lull in her chef duties to try and sneak to the back.

“You stay away from the nursery!” Bon Bon snarled, bristled much like a mother bear in the presence of a threat to cubs. “I _just_ got that special breed of bluebells to grow, you so much as _squint_ at them and I’m feeding you to your oven! Make sure that one doesn’t break another pot.” The man who somehow always smelled like sugar stormed into the back, grumbling about something under his breath. Bendy got it. No one could cook like Cagney, the woman was a force of nature in the kitchen despite being a forest spirit and by all accounts, afraid of fire. And yet, she was notoriously bad with plants. Bendy had personally seen a carnation go from blossoming and bright and beautiful in Bon Bon’s hands, to wilting, sad, and dead in Cagneys. All in the span of a minute. It was traumatizing.

Granted, Bon Bon once stepped in the kitchen and set a pot of water on fire, so, it wasn’t like he had any room to speak. How the two managed to keep the shop going and well enough that it was considered neutral territory, no one would ever know. Swiftly, Bon Bon reemerged, eyeing Cagney balefully as he carefully brought the quaint bouquet over to the counter where Bendy had migrated to. Jendy made a noise of confusion, less hostile now, but only in the face of the curious sight of her sibling buying flowers.

Neither technical twin could or would barrel into the mind of the other. The ink didn’t allow it, the creators didn’t allow it—or the one that mattered didn’t allow it, the other was too busy being bitter to care—and neither one actually wanted to see what horrors lurked in silent thoughts. Bendy took _full_ advantage of that. She could already hear the seething loathing coming from the fact that Bendy mentioned receiving baked goods from the judge both knew now. She paid for it, blatantly stared at the floury mess, wondered briefly how much mayhem would arise when Jendy inevitably decided her reputation had taken enough of a hit to warrant another drawing board incident, and left, a new pep in her step.

***

After delivering her little apology gift to the appropriate room in the courthouse, she kept on her rounds. Helping lost tourists find their way around, getting a cat out of a tree—harder than it sounded when the cat had a chainsaw and a determination to stay where it was—and so on. All the little things an officer of Inkwell had to do before the inevitable. She, like every other officer in the force aside from a few, dread the time of day when she was to wind down and file paperwork.

It was honestly the one time the _other_ creator came to good use. She could mow through her reports and even help cut through the mountain that needed be done for the gang. Part of her longed to be in the interrogation rooms, but after the first—and last—time, she wasn’t even allowed near that hallway. She wondered—as she signed her name for the fiftieth time, never happier for not having actual muscles to grow tired—if her fellow officers were learning about anything the souls inside the ink hadn’t told her. That report was the first thing she wrote, listening to the three souls she’d targeted first painfully go through what they’d been doing and how they’d done it.

How they’d gotten so big without anyone knowing. How they’d been about to mount an assault on the dockyard and take full control of it. They’d been aiming for supply lines. They’d been helped by someone only the leader knew and had met. When Bendy pressed on that further, all she got was a whimper and a broken sob restating how little they knew of the mysterious helper. Only that the helper knew the underground was bigger than anyone in Inkwell thought, and knew their way around it. It wasn’t great, but she supposed the courts might get more. They might even bring one of the judges into the precinct just to speed things up if they decided they needed to know more.

She powered through paper after paper until her to-do box was empty, and then she was off, delivering the pages to where they needed to go. After that, she returned, clocked out, turned out the lights, and took that time to relax. She had no errands to run, nowhere to go for now, and so, she decided to reward herself with happier memories of listening to a determined creator wonderfully list and doodle all the new ideas’ such a wonderful brain came up with.

**Notes for the Chapter:**

> I swear i'm still alive, work just has me exhausted. Not too long, but it didn't need to be, just a slice in the life of a rowdy officer. Between the two ink demons, no one is ever really sure who would be worse to run into on a bad day. And yes, this Bendy is a bit different from the other renditions i've done. She's actually modeled after an idea for a not so hilarious Batim AU I've got on the pile. Less Bendipe and more eldrich horrors given toon logic and so on.


End file.
